


The Hunger of Wolves

by blue_spectacles



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, Betty is gay, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, F/F, Ghost!Jason, Ghosts, Horror, Jughead is gay, Jughead isn't asexual, M/M, Supernatural Elements, Werewolves, the Blossoms have secrets, the Coopers have secrets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-11-03 01:23:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 50,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10956768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_spectacles/pseuds/blue_spectacles
Summary: Everyone thinks Jason Blossom drowned, then they find the body. Half the body. After that, the wild animal attacks start. Riverdale will never be the same again, and nobody is safe.





	1. there is another shore, you know, upon the farther side

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be a retelling of the first season of Riverdale, fused with some of the supernatural creatures from Teen Wolf and with more of a horror tone overall. It also draws some inspiration from the Jughead: the Hunger one-shot comic from the Archie Horror line. Hope you enjoy!

Jughead Jones is sitting in his usual booth at Pop Tate’s chocolate shop, laptop open in front of him, working on his book. His novel about their town, Riverdale. _No._ About the disappearance of Jason Blossom. _Death._ They’re calling it a death, even though they don’t have a body. 

_On the fourth of July, Jason Blossom, stepped into a boat with his twin sister, and was never seen again. A week later, his parents buried an empty casket, and we were supposed to pretend that meant it was over, that there wasn’t a shadow spreading out, staining everything in Riverdale. Staining Riverdale._

It’s affecting them, even if people don’t want to see it, don’t want to talk about it. It’s there in the awkward pauses when people talk about the high school football team, or when someone has to clear their throat and look away when they bring up a fishing trip on Sweetwater River.

Jughead wants to make a record of it, to capture it somehow - the chill in the air that hangs over Riverdale, making everyone quiet, their faces brittle. What would Jason think? Would he be pleased, Jughead wonders, that trademark Blossom-narcissism coming out in full force?

It hurts. Typing these things _hurts_. And no one knows how much it hurts _,_ because Jughead has no one he can talk to about it. His mother packed up and left, taking Jellybean with her. His dad dove headfist back into the bottle. He used to have friends he could go to. _Once upon a time Jughead Jones used to have friends._ That’s another thing this summer took from him.

_Let’s face facts, kid_ – it’s his dad’s voice he hears inside his head, _if an all-around nice guy like Archie Andrews, of all people, can just ditch your ass with no warning, with no reason or apology, then I guess you really must_ not _matter much at all in the grand scheme of things, eh?_

Jughead must be a non-entity because Archie Andrews _–again: nicest guy in town –_ doesn’t treat people the way he treated Jughead this summer. He never got to tell him about Jason. And while Archie was bailing on their long-planned road-trip, Jason was busy drowning in Sweetwater River. So he lost both of them at once.

_You really are somethin’ special, kid. A Grade-A fuck up,_ his old man’s voice, again. For some reason Jughead can’t even think his own thoughts anymore. _Yeah, thanks, Dad._

His throat’s closing up. But he can’t cry here. He’ll wait until he’s back in his lonely booth at the drive-in.

_I could have slipped into the freezing current of Sweetwater River on July fourth and been carried away, and the town wouldn’t have fucking noticed._  

_Would Jason have cared, if our positions were reversed?_ What were they, to each other, really? Not . . . _together._ But not _not_ -together, either.

 

_“We can’t tell anyone,” Jason says, gripping Jughead’s shoulder, tight enough to leave bruises, more bruises. He shakes him, forcing Jughead to look at him. One hand cups his cheek, fingers reaching up to catch a stray black curl escaping from Jughead’s beanie. Jason looks him in the eye. “Not anyone. Not ever. You hear me?”_

_Jughead isn’t surprised by this outburst. Hadn’t expected anything different. How naïve does Jason think he is? “Yeah, sure. Whatever.”_

_He licks his lip. Jason is still glaring at him, leaning closer, so serious now, too serious. Jughead thinks he might break it off with him right then and there. Just bolt, leave Jughead sitting in the woods, alone, far away from anywhere._

_The forest is part of the Blossom’s vast property, the trees maple waiting to be tapped for their sticky-sweet blood. The Blossoms are notoriously protective of their maple syrup empire and Jughead has a sudden, disturbing image of Jason’s old man chasing him down with a shot-gun._

_Jughead resists the urge to reach out and grab Jason’s arm. He’s not that needy. Not even close. Not even with the prospect of being gunned down by a crazy parent._

_If there’s one thing he knows how to do it’s be alone._

_But just this once can’t he have something? So he rolls his eyes at Jason and says: “Who do you think I want to tell? I have no friends. I’m a loser, remember? So, just relax.” He tentatively curls his fingers in the fabric of Jason’s school letterman jacket. Blue and gold. Jughead isn’t normally (ever) the one to initiate things between them and Jason seems surprised enough that he forgets his train of thought, letting himself be dragged down into a kiss._

_Jughead licks his lips and Jason opens his mouth, hands cradling Jughead, threatening to dislodge his beanie._

_“It’s not like anyone would believe me, anyway,” Jughead can’t quite keep the bitterness out of his voice. “You’ve done a good job of convincing the entire school that you hate me.”_

_Earlier that week, Reggie Mantle had slammed Jughead into a locker on the way to class, bruising his arm pretty good (though not worse than what he gets at home, to be honest) and Jason, walking with Reggie and Chuck and the rest of the varsity football team, laughed with them, had laughed when Reggie called him a fag, when Chuck said something about how poor Jughead’s family was – trailer trash, he called them - well, that was school. He doesn’t expect anything better. He’s Jason Blossom’s dirty little secret and he supposes he will be until Jason gets bored and moves on to someone more socially acceptable._

_“Look, I’m . . . sorry, about that stuff, okay? It doesn’t mean anything.”_

Easy for you to say, _Jughead thinks, but notices Jason’s not grabbing his bruised arm, wonders if that’s worth anything, decides, no, probably not._

_“It’s just . . . I have to . . . be normal. At school.” He mumbles something about his parents and Jughead’s harsh laugh cuts him off._

_“_ That’s _normal? Being an asshole is normal to you?”_

_Jughead thinks maybe he’s pushed it too far this time. Jason’s expression flickers, his eyes are on Jughead, so sober and serious. His eyes are blue, as steely blue as the sky before a storm and having them fixed on him so intently, makes Jughead shiver and fall silent. There is something of the wild in those eyes._

_Jason pushes him back down against the ground (not ungently) and straddles him, pinning him there. The grass is wet and the ground is hard. Jason’s hands grip his wrists, locking them above his head while Jason bends down to kiss him, again and again._

_The river courses and growls somewhere in the distance, rushing quick from the spring thaw, churning up chunks of ice. The water is obscured by the thick clusters of maple trees that hide everything, hide them. Jason’s breath is hot against his skin. He presses a kiss to Jughead’s cheek, to his chin, to his neck._

_“Shut up . . . just, shut up . . .” Jason murmurs, “you make everything so complicated. So . . . dangerous. You don’t even know . . .”_

_Jughead licks his lips as Jason releases his wrists, to push up the frabric of his sweatshirt. “I guess I just like to live dangerously,” he says, breath hitching in his chest as Jason’s fingers skirt over his ribs, almost tickling. Jason’s grin is sharply predatory._

_NO! DAMN IT SHUT UP WITH THIS REMEMBERING BULLSHIT!_ Jughead drives the heels of his hands into his eyes. He wishes he could drive the memories out of his head. It would be so much easier if he didn’t have them.

Across the diner, Pop Tate’s gaze is concerned, is always concerned lately, when his eyes fall upon the boy who wears the same jeans and hoodie multiple days in a row, has dark circles under his eyes and stays at the diner far too late on school nights, when any half-decent parents would be dragging him home. “You alright there, Jughead?”

The boy sniffs, lowers his hands shakily and his grimace is not a smile by any stretch of the imagination. “Yeah, fine, Pop. Can I get another cup of coffee?”

It’s after midnight. Pop’s torn between wanting to tell the kid to go home already and worrying about what’s _at_ home that drives Jughead to spend half the night at a diner, anyway. He knows who Jughead’s dad is, and he’s seen the kid come in wearing long sleeve sweatshirts in the middle of an August heatwave. “This one’s on the house, ‘kay?” he says, and pours a decaf when Jughead’s not looking.

The smile Jughead gives him when Pop brings it over is too world-weary for a high schooler’s face, and Pop feels a stab of deep worry and helpless sadness. 

“Thanks, Pop.”

“Anytime, Juggie.”

 

Pop retreats back behind the counter, and Jughead stares at the screen.

How does he write this? Where’s the beginning?

Does it begin with Jason and his sister taking that ill-fated boat ride on July fourth? Or does it really begin three months earlier, when Jughead walks into Pop’s and sees Jason sharing a milkshake with Cheryl? _Jason’s eyes lock on his and Jughead stumbles, because the world has just shuddered. Because time slows down. Because he is being gripped by invisible forces._

_He beats a hasty retreat, blushing, hoping it’s not obvious that he’s blushing, but Jason catches him outside. One hand falls on Jughead’s arm casually-not-casually. His touch burns through Jughead’s jacket and sweater, sinking right down into his skin. “Hey, Jones. Going somewhere?”_

_“Yeah. Away from_ you _.”_

_“Ooh, feisty,” Jason says, his voice low as he proceeds to crowd Jughead’s personal space. “I like it.”_

 

Jughead wasn’t there, of course, when Jason died. He stood on the banks far after the fact, when the police dragged the river, when the camera crews of the local news media blocked off the streets. The town gathered there, peering and gawking.

_He overhears Alice Cooper say to her husband, “I hope in his last moments he suffered.” Below, he hears the Blossoms yelling at Sheriff Stilinski and Deputy Keller. Penelope Blossom’s voice is hoarse with tears. He has to leave. He can’t stand there and listen, feeling like more of a ghost than Jason._

The shadows start spreading that day, though. Black and blue storm clouds like bruises cover every inch of the sky, matching the water. Jughead feels that ice flowing through his veins. And in his dreams he tastes it and the air. The same cold – _too cold for summer_ – air.

Pop’s diner is warm, Jughead tells himself, rubbing his hands, which feel like ice, before carefully choosing his words and typing. He’s been here for hours and the glow of the screen is starting to hurt his eyes, that’s all. The caffeine from all the coffee is making his head buzz and his hands tremble. Yes, the caffeine, not the story. About Jason. _About Jason dying._

Last night he dreamt:

_Jason and Jughead stand on the edge of the river, small rocks and pebbles crunching under their feet. Jason is soaked to the bone, dripping wet, dark water running down his face, from his matted, flattened hair that no longer even looks red. He leaves a dark trail behind them. His white shirt is translucent against his skin, showing the lines of his thin, lean muscles._

_“You couldn’t make it back to the shore?” Jughead asks, again and again. “Cheryl could make it back – how is it that pampered princess is a stronger swimmer than you? You’re captain of the football team – not to mention the Aquaholics! - how could you not make it back to the shore?!” he’s yelling then, weeping. “How the fuck could you not make it back, Jason?!”_

_Dark clouds form in the distance, even bigger and blacker than they were that day, when Jughead stood on the banks and watched the police drag the lake. These clouds are huge and_ (evil) _and the wind howls like a shriek, shaking his bones and hurting his ears._

_The ground shudders beneath them, pebbles bouncing and sliding off into the river where they land with dull plunks._

_Jason’s eyes are on him, like they were that day, in Pop’s, until the blue disappears and Jason’s eyes flash bright gold, a burning yellow that makes Jughead take a step back. The smile stretching Jason’s lips is sardonic – a corpse’s grin - and his skin is so white it’s going grey and blue. Jughead wants to pull away, but he can’t. Jason’s hand reaches forward, like an invitation, like he’s asking Jughead to dance. Jughead’s brain randomly think of the back to school semi-formal._

_Then he sees that Jason’s fingers end in claws._

_“There is another shore, you know,” says Jason, through his frozen rictus grin, even above the yowling, screaming wind and the water splashing up onto the shore in huge, cracking waves. His teeth are growing as Jughead watches, the canines elongating to fangs. “You don’t know what’s coming, Jughead . . .”_

_Dark shapes writhe in Sweetwater River behind him, rising to meet the storm, rising and spilling great, smashing waves and_

_blood._

_So much blood. It’s all blood._

_The wind howls and the sound reverberates through his head and down his spine, turning his guts to ice water._

 

Jughead wakes up screaming, drenched in sweat. It doesn’t leave him alone, all day. Even now, at Pop’s, after midnight, he can’t shake the sight of Jason, his glowing yellow eyes and grin and his hand ending in claws, but held out to him. An invitation.

_(will you, won’t you join the dance?)_

Jughead shudders and types. He doesn’t want to know what it means that he dreams of his dead lover this way. He was already a freak, but _this_ – maybe he _is_ seriously unbalanced. Maybe he should have been the one to end up in _Eichen House_ and not Betty’s sister.

Jughead takes a quick gulp of coffee and loses himself in the writing.

Even if still had friends, which he doesn’t, everyone is at the first dance of the school year. He sat in the auditorium earlier that day, with all the other students, and listened to Cheryl tell everyone Jason wouldn’t want them to spend the year mourning. He wishes he could believe that. She is Jason’s twin, after all. But he just feels cold and unmoored without Archie to turn to. Archie, who bailed on their trip, who avoided him like the plague all through July and August, who is now hanging out with the same football jocks that made Jughead’s freshman year a living hell.

_Well, whatever,_ he tells himself. Obviously he isn’t going to the dance. Even if everything were different, even if Jason was alive, or Archie was speaking to him, he wouldn’t be caught dead at some stupid sock-hop, alright? _All those people gathered around, their eyes glittering in the dark – Jason’s grim white hand offered to him, just ignore the long dark claws._

Pop’s is comforting, familiar and safe.

The door jangles open and Jughead ignores it, focused on his writing, until he hears Stiles Stilinski – the sheriff’s son - call his name. Jughead frowns, brow creasing, wondering if Stiles is really so bored, if he didn’t pick on Jughead enough at school, he has to follow him here, to Pop’s, but it’s after midnight. _This is surreal,_ he thinks, watching as Stiles nearly trips over a cart loaded with dirty plates.

“Jughead! Jughead, man, _there_ you are.”

Stiles was _looking_ for him? Jughead frowns, fingers resting on the keyboard. Not sure how to proceed. _What fresh Hell is this?_

Stiles makes his way over, almost running, slapping the back of the empty booths on his way. “Hey! You really do hang here a lot, huh? Not that I’m judging. It’s cool. _Retro_ ,” he adds, glancing around at the red booths, the authentic 1950s jukebox in the corner and Pop’s vintage-style uniform and apron, “but cool.”

Pop’s _is_ cool. For some reason though, hearing _Stiles_ say it, makes Jughead angry. This is _his_ place – well, it used to be his _and_ Archie’s _and_ Betty’s place, but now it’s _just_ his. That doesn’t mean he wants to see Stiles barge in, knocking into food carts and intruding on his carefully cultivated solitude.

Jughead settles on fixing the interloper with his most unimpressed, unfriendly, _fuck-the-hell-off_ glare.

For a second he thinks it works, as Stiles freezes, but he _unfreezes_ just as fast, shaking himself like a dog and sitting, uninvited, in the booth opposite Jughead. Uninvited in Jughead’s inner sanctum! He outright _ignores_ Jughead’s grimace, the way his eyes narrow, the way his shoulders hunch.

“What, are you busy, or something?”

“ _Yes._ ”

“With what?” Before Jughead can even answer, if he was going to (which he wasn’t), Stiles grabs his laptop, spinning it around. For a moment, Jughead is too outraged at this invasion of personal privacy even to yell! He sits frozen, vibrating with anger. Stiles is oblivious. “Oh, cool, you’re working on your book.”

“My . . .” Jughead frowns, slamming the laptop shut in Stiles’ face. “How do you even know about-”

“Your book? Well, it’s a small town and I actually go out and talk to people in it. So,” he shrugs, “there’s that.”

Jughead practically growls. “What. Do. You. Want?”

This jock has invaded his space. It’s not like at school, where he’s come to expect it. This is _Pop Tate’s_. Sacred ground.

“I want to help you,” Stiles says, looking genuinely taken aback by the question, like it should have been obvious.

Jughead stares at him, baffled and wary. _This is all the set-up to some horrible prank,_ he thinks, but he can’t figure out the punchline, or why anyone would go to this much effort. And isn’t Reggie – king of pranks – at the school dance?

“Come on! I’m the s _heriff’_ s son,” says Stiles, “I _know_ things. I can help. I am very helpful. Just a helpful person, that’s me.”

“Jason . . . _drowned_ ,” Jughead grits out through clenched teeth. _Leave me alone,_ he says through his eyes.

Stiles, infuriatingly, leans back, eyebrow arching a bit smugly. He’s clearly trying to contain the smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, his body is visibly radiating excitement. “ _Did_ he? _Did_ he, though? Oh, isn’t that the million dollar question?”

_The dream crashes over Jughead once again, he sees Jason’s burning yellow eyes. “You don’t know what’s coming,” spoken in a growl, like a roar, like the waves._

If Jughead turns a shade paler, Stiles doesn’t notice. He taps impatiently at the table, leg jumping with nervous energy. “Okay, man, listen to this: they just found a body in the river. I heard it on the police scanner.”

_Shapes twist and unfold in the shadows. Shadows spread over everything._ Jughead feels his heart plummet to his feet and he can’t breathe.

_They found a body_

_in the river._

Stiles could be messing with him. But his dad _is_ the sheriff, so Jughead allows that it’s not completely unreasonable that he could have heard something before the rest of them. He swallows.

“A . . . body? Jason? Jason’s . . . ?” His voice sounds small and distant. He clears his throat. “Jason’s body?”

Stiles nods, his eyes burning with intensity. “That’s what I’m thinking, anyway. Kevin and Danny reported it. My dad is out there now, with the rest of the sheriff’s department. And Kevin’s dad will be there too, I guess. He is the deputy. Sorry, rambling. I do that. But that’s not the freaky part, even.”

Jughead feels like he’s falling off a cliff. He can only listen, staring at Stiles in horrified fascination.

“Your book just got a whole lot more interesting,” Stiles promises, like Jughead should be pleased.

Jughead looks down at the laptop, closed, on the table between them. He hardly dares ask. “. . . why?”

Stiles leans forward, elbows on the counter, his brown eyes are dark. He looks like he’s sharing a particularly juicy piece of gossip. “They only found _half_ of it.”

Static.

Static in his brain.

_Jason’s eyes finding him that day, at Pop’s, cutting across the diner, ignoring Cheryl to seek him out. Jason’s hands pinning him to the ground in spring, fingers exploring beneath his clothes, a hot breath of air against his cheek._

He must make some sort of sound.

Stiles expression changes. “Hey . . . hey, man, you okay?”

Jughead swallows. “. . . Fine,” it comes out in a hoarse croak. An idiot could see that he isn’t fine.

“It’s just . . . I knew you were interested in the case, and – uh –shit – I didn’t mean – was he your friend? I didn’t think you got along with those jock types, but, uh, not that I mean you’re not . . . popular. I mean. Crap.” Stiles raises a hand to brush over his buzzed-short brown hair. “Shit. I’m sorry. It’s just, everyone knows Jason and his sister are jerks. And you’re friends with Archie and Betty, right? Not . . . not _those_ guys.” He waves a hand vaguely. _Not Jason._

_Jason is a jerk. Everyone knows. Everyone knows that._

It’s not Stiles’ fault. He saw what everyone did – Jason and his friends Reggie and Chuck pushing and yelling at Jughead in the halls, calling him freak and worse things. He couldn’t be expected to guess the truth.

But it’s weird to think this is how Jason will be remembered.

Maybe that’s one of the reasons Jughead feels compelled to write this book.

_Nobody knew you, after all, Jason,_ Jughead thinks, but he can’t allow himself to fall apart in front of Stiles. He stares down at the laptop for a second, until he’s sure he can speak in a steady voice. “We weren’t . . . friends. But I knew him. We all did. He was one of us. A kid from Riverdale.”

“Right,” says Stiles, seeming relieved. “So. You want to solve the case, don’t you?”

_Cut in half._

_Murdered? Right, obviously, because it’s not like he bisected himself._

Jughead feels the hair on his arms stand up beneath his jacket and resists the urge to rub his arms.

_Murdered and cut in half and thrown in the river._

_Blood in the water, in his dream._

Stiles is already standing. “Well, come on.”

Jughead looks up at him.

“Let’s go find the other half.”

 

 

 

 

EARLIER THAT DAY

 

 

 

It’s the morning of the first day of school. Stiles is early, which is unusual, and Archie is early which is _unheard of_ , but hey – it’s the morning after the summer vacation when everything changed. He feels like that should be emblazoned somewhere. On the blue and gold ‘Welcome Back’ banners or something – WELCOME BACK: WE ARE ALL CHANGED HERE. 

They are _not_ the same people they were in June. Riverdale High is _not_ the same place. Everything is backwards and upside down.

The old Stiles, for instance, wouldn’t have been loitering near the front doors, hanging out with Archie Andrews. Not that they hate each other, or anything, but they have different circles – Stiles plays lacrosse, and not very well, and Archie’s a football guy, all the way.

Plus, everyone’s known since elementary school that Archie, Betty and Jughead are the Three Musketeers and nobody gets between them. But Betty was away all summer on some fancy internship in New York, and somehow Stiles and Archie started hanging out, not all the time, but enough that it doesn’t feel too weird, now, to be standing near the front doors in these first few moments before the bell rings, with people walking all around them, talking about the disappearance of the star of the football team – one _Jason Blossom_ , missing, presumed dead. 

A group of freshman girls giggle, stopping to check out the tall redhead beside him, their eyes move over Stiles like he’s not even there, he might as well be part of the wall, or a piece of furniture. Archie smiles back and nods, saying hello politely, and the girls all blush before running inside, arms linked, _actually squealing._

Stiles glares at Archie. “ _Seriously_? Dude? How do you even-?” 

Archie blushes as brightly as those girls did, turning as red as his hair. “It’s from working construction all summer! With my dad, you know?” he stammers, gesturing to his muscles with helpless, clumsy movements, like they just suddenly appeared there without his knowing and he’s as shocked as anyone. 

It _is_ kind of adorable, to be honest, but Stiles raises his eyebrows, shaking his head slowly from side to side. “Your constant charm and humility make me _sick_ , Archie, just sick. Can you stop being charming for _one minute_ , so we can get back to talking about something important, please?”

Archie gives him a look that says he’s thankful they’re changing the subject, but he’s tired of talking about the disappearance of Jason Blossom. But really, what else are they going to talk about? Archie’s newfound interest in music? Or maybe his mystery girlfriend that he refuses to tell Stiles about (mostly, he talks about her enough that it’s annoying.)

Jason Blossom’s drowning is the only newsworthy event to _ever_ come out of Riverdale. “I just want to know why they weren’t wearing lifejackets,” Stiles says, for the hundredth time. Seriously, it bothers him. “Also, Jason was champion of the school swim team –”

“Water polo,” Archie corrects.

“Right, whatever. Isn’t it a _little_ weird that he couldn’t make it to the shore when his sister did? And why did they just decide to get into a boat first thing in the morning – who _does_ that? And isn’t that really more of a . . . a _date_ activity, rather than something a brother and sister would normally-”

“Can we please not talk about this anymore?” says Archie, “Cheryl could hear us and . . . it wouldn’t be right.” 

“Yeah, well, newsflash, the Blossoms aren’t exactly the nicest people in town. Did you know there’s all kinds of weird rumors about the family, and Thorn Hill – you know, their creepy, gothic palace? Apparently it’s haunted. The servants say you can hear all kinds of strange sounds there at night, _especially_ on the full moon and-”

“You shouldn’t spread rumors,” Archie says, and so sincerely, too, that Stiles presses his lips shut, but can’t help the huff of air that escapes through his nose.

“You know, in some ways, you and I are very different people, _Archibald_ – oh, wait a second,” Stiles’ stands up, trying to make himself seem taller, pulling his jacket straighter. Archie glances around in confusion, wondering who he’s looking at, he supposes. But Stiles doesn’t care about Archie right now, because he’s just caught sight of a familiar figure stalking towards the front doors. _Jughead Jones_. He’s slouched and scowling, even worse than Stiles’ remembers from last year. His eyes look bleary. Does he look tired? Stiles thinks he looks tired. And pale. And thin.

“Archie, shut up,” says Stiles.

Archie’s brow furrows in a way that, had Stiles been looking, he probably would have found adorable. “I wasn’t talking-”

“Sshhhh!” Stiles waves a hand frantically, almost hitting Archie in the face, because Jughead is approaching the front doors and he will have to pass them to enter the school, _which may or may not be why Stiles chose to stop and chat with Archie in this exact place._ Clever, right? He has to resort to these measures, since Jughead is like a ghost, or a shadow, throughout the school day, impossible to pin down.

His trademark grey crown-beanie is pulled low over his head, his backpack is bulky and huge, and he’s not looking at anyone. He’s not looking at anyone kind of _intensely._ He has a pair of headphones slung around his neck and his scowl could make milk curdle.

And it’s . . . kind of hot, actually. Jughead wears his aloofness so well, Stiles can’t help but admire. 

(And yes, he knows he has it bad.)

“Oh. It’s _just_ Jughead . . .” Archie murmurs, but he’s backing away a little bit, like he doesn’t want to be right at the entrance when Jughead gets there.

Stiles frowns. This is not part of the plan. “What’s wrong with you? Aren’t you to supposed to be, like, best friends forever and all that crap?”

“ _Betty_ is my best friend,” Archie says.

“Yeah, but you’re like the Three Musketeers! Come on, dude,” Stiles says. Archie's expression is sincerely surprised, like he didn't know everyone else in the school thought of them that way. Stiles rolls his eyes: “yes, everyone knows you three are tight and have been since, like, forever.”

“Yeah, well . . . not anymore,” Archie shrugs, shifting his backpack a little on one arm and looking away.

Stiles groans, resisting the urge to bang his head repeatedly into the school door. “I have literally been trying to talk to this kid since _third grade._ ”

“So _talk_ to him,” Archie huffs, looking at Stiles like he’s gone absolutely mental. “It’s _just_ Jughead,” he says again, with emphasis, before turning and pretty much running away. Archie slips into the over-crowded front foyer of the school and vanishes in the same direction as the giggling freshmen, leaving Stiles gaping after him, like, _holy shit what the hell happened between these guys?_

It takes him a minute to gather himself and he shouts, “don’t tell me what to do, Andrews!” down the hall at the top of his lungs. A few people look at him funny and he wants to flip them off, but instead he turns back, only to nearly collide with Jughead who is suddenly _right there._

“HEY!” he shouts, a little louder than he should. Jughead flinches, but doesn’t look at him. “Hey – J-Jughead, looking good–”

The other boy brushes past, knocking him in the shoulder and giving no sign that he heard, or even acknowledges Stiles’ existence. 

Stiles falls back, defeated, “. . . and looking like you’re going to ignore me. Again. As always.” He sighs, running a hand up through his short, buzzed hair. “Nice hat!” he calls after him, uselessly. A few people snicker. There’s stupid Stiles, striking out again. God _damn_ it.

Archie was supposed to help with this.

Why does Jughead _hate_ him so much?

 

*          *          *

 

Jughead cringes ( _tries not to cringe_ ) when he hears their laughter following him through the hall. _Don’t give anything away._

Fucking hell, though, why does _Stilinski_ always have to be such an ass all of the time? Right. Might as well ask why the sky has to be blue, or the sun hot.

Jughead isn’t sure what he ever did to _him_ – Stiles isn’t even one of the usual football jocks who make his life a living hell as part of their daily routine, but he supposes they all had to jump on the bullying-Jughead bandwagon sooner or later – but it _is_ different with Stiles. He doesn’t trip Jughead, or shove him, or throw punches at him. In a way that would be easier to deal with. Jughead _knows_ how to handle a bruise, or a cut or a broken bone. ( _Thanks_ , _Dad_.) He _doesn’t_ know why Stiles seems obsessed with the fact that Jughead’s gay. And _how the Hell does he even know?!_

Jughead’s heart starts racing and he grips the straps of his backpack, letting them dig into his palms while he struggles to take a deep breath. _He doesn’t know anything_ , Jughead tells himself. Stiles is just giving him a hard time because that’s what asshole homophobic jocks _do_ – but really? This thing where he constantly _pretends_ to be hitting on Jughead? It’s like salt poured into the lonely gash that is his life. _So._

_You should be used to being alone by now_.

And why the fuck did Stiles have to insult Jughead’s hat?! That’s just the last straw – or it would be, if Jughead had any sort of means of retaliation planned, which he doesn’t.

(Sure, he said ‘ _nice_ hat,’ but obviously that was sarcasm. Obviously.)

God, Jughead wants to punch Stiles right in his stupid mouth.

 

*          *          *

 

Betty stands in front of Archie, who has just come off the football field and he’s sweaty and somehow _glorious_ , even though it was only practice, and she wishes she could be a cheerleader, because wouldn’t that just make it _perfect_? Him the varsity football star, her the preppy school cheerleader? _She could play that part,_ she thinks, carving her nails into the soft skin of the palms of her hands. But she will never be a cheerleader because Cheryl Blossom (the devil incarnate) says she’s too fat, says she’s too wimpy, says she’s too ___.

Cheryl hates her for reasons that have nothing to do with cheerleading.

Cheryl hates her because Jason briefly dated Betty’s sister, Polly, but when they broke up it was Polly who ended up broken, in a padded room at Eichen House. Betty isn’t even allowed to visit. Isn’t it she who should be angry? No - _deep breath, clenched fists -_ she’s the _nice_ one.

Betty stands in front of Archie in her plain blouse and wool skirt, twisting her arms around herself in a nervous hug, trying to disguise the fact that she is trembling – _actually trembling!_ and since when did Archie make her panic, or leave her tongue-tied? This is _painful_. Can’t they go back to playing in Jughead’s treehouse? Now, Archie towers over her, and in his football gear he appears even huger. There is something larger than life in Archie’s presence this year and she can’t deny it. If she were with him she would be part of it and she would finally fit, too.

Everything would be perfect, wouldn’t it?

( _Wouldn’t it?)_

“Betty?” he asks, wiping the sweat off his forehead, causing his short, red hair to stick up a little.

“I was just . . . wondering . . . if . . . if . . .” she swallows, her hands are sweaty and her pulse is racing like mad and she might puke. “If-you-wanted-to-go-to-the-dance-with-me-tonight?” she says it so quickly it all falls out of her mouth in one tangled word and she watches Archie frown as he tries to mentally sort out the mess of consonants and vowels.

Betty’s cheeks grow hot and she wonders if she will have to repeat it.

“You know, I’m not really in the mood for a dance,” says Archie.

Her heart is in knots. Her finger nails dig into the palms of her hands hard enough to draw blood. So she won’t cry. So she won’t scream.

“Oh . . . that’s fine,” she says, her voice sounding like a squeak. Archie looks at her like she’s a weirdo. When did she become _weird_ for thinking of them – a boy and a girl who have literally been together forever – as a couple? Isn’t this what’s _supposed_ to happen? She’s just trying to be normal!

_Why is normal something always just out of reach?_

Betty doesn’t even notice Lydia Martin saunter over, teetering on her designer heels. _Where did she come from?_

With her long red hair, she’s almost Cheryl Blossom-lite. But her hair is a softer shade of red, her face softer as well – rounder. She can be as snobby as Cheryl, though, her remarks as caustic.  

But she’s fallen off the popularity hierarchy after being dumped by the captain of the lacrosse team. That’s all Betty knows about her, really. They aren’t friends, so she doesn’t know how to react when Lydia comes teetering across the field in her designer heels, Prada handbag swinging on her elbow. Smiling at her.

“Betty Cooper, _there_ you are!” she trills, looping one arm through Betty’s. “I’ve been looking _all over_ for you! We are going to be best friends this year.”

“We . . . we are?” Betty stares at her, not sure how to react.

Lydia nods. “Of course we are.”

Betty doesn’t know whether she should be amused or horrified. “Is that . . . so?” she turns to Archie, hoping for help, but he looks equally as baffled.  

Lydia surveys Archie, a quick up and down of her head, eyes flashing, and she sniffs in disdain. “Excuse me, Andrews, the ladies are speaking.”

“Actually, _I_ was talking to Archie, Lydia . . .”

“Oh, you don’t want to waste your time with _him_ , Betty. You can do _so_ much better than some dumb jock.” She flashes Archie a shark-like smile. “No offense.”

Archie, being Archie, looks more amused than offended.

Betty decides she will just have to be offended _for_ him. She frowns, tossing her head. “Excuse me?” She yanks her arm out of Lydia’s grip. It’s her habit to protect Archie, after all. “Didn’t you date _Jackson Whittemore_ all freshman year? Captain of the lacrosse team, Jackson Whittemore? And all around-jerk, I might add. You know he pushed one of my friends in the trash.”

Lydia’s eyes widen at that and she actually looks . . . troubled? Sad? Betty feels a brief flash of guilt – but Lydia was the one to barge up and interrupt _her_ talking to Archie! _I don’t have to be the nice one all the time!_

Lydia recovers quickly, anyway, making a show of examining her perfectly manicured nails. “Yes. Well, Jackson was _so_ last year and I’m so totally over him. I promised myself I’m only going with people who have actual _brains_ this year, if I go with anyone, and you should, too.”

“Actually, Betty, Lydia’s right,” says Archie and they both turn and gape at him. He looks flustered and runs a hand through his sweaty hair again. “Look, Betty, I’ve never been good enough for you-”

Betty’s jaw drops. She feels the color drain from her face. “Wait. _What?_ ”

_What is Archie saying. Oh, God, Lydia, what have you done?_

“No, you should date someone, uh, better. Lydia’s right. I think, uh, I think she’s . . . right.” He’s not meeting her gaze when he says it, his eyes flickering past her and Lydia, searching the distant horizon nervously. Betty feels a twitch starting in her left eyebrow - _she digs her nails into her hands_ – fights to compose herself.

“Archie. Come on,” _she can’t start crying_ , “we’ve been best friends since _kindergarten,_ since when am I –”

“Look, I’ve gotta go,” he cuts her off, words coming in a jumble. “We’ll talk about this later, okay? Have fun at the dance.” With that he runs off, _exit stage Archie,_ running for the showers, where she obviously can’t follow him.

He leaves her.

And Betty is left feeling shaken, like she’s just been punched in the chest. Of course, Archie would never hit her, or any girl, but he might as well have.

_Shaking . . . my hands are shaking . . ._

_He was supposed to . . . with me . . . I was meant to . . . to be normal._

 

It feels like the world is crumbling all around her.

And Lydia is still standing there, next to her. Large, thoughtful brown eyes gazes at her, the wind lifting strands of Lydia’s long-long red hair around her face. _Cheryl would probably let her be a cheerleader,_ Betty thinks, almost hysterically, _Cheryl likes things that remind her of herself._

But Lydia hasn’t been subtle about her disdain for cheerleading, so maybe not. Maybe she really isn’t that much like Cheryl.

“Do you know what Jackson said, when he broke up with me?” her voice is quiet and oddly serious. Betty doesn’t really know Lydia, but she’s not used to thinking of her as serious. She somehow manages to focus on the other girl, even though her hands are shaking and her knees are weak and she feels like she’s about two seconds away from outright collapsing.

“He said . . . ‘ _I’ve decided to drop some of the dead weight in my life . . . and you’re about the deadest._ ’” Lydia’s eyes focus on Betty again and they’re watery, too-bright, the smile she forces is a fragile thing and Betty suddenly feels a flood of empathy for this girl. “I mean . . . he was just a piece of arm-candy anyway,” says Lydia, and Betty knows she doesn’t mean it. She takes a breath. “So. This dance. What do you say we go together?” 

Betty’s head actually tilts at this. “What?”

Lydia’s smile brightens. “Unless you think you need a man to have a good time?”

“N-no . . . of course not, but Lydia-” _Having a conversation with Lydia Martin,_ Betty realizes, _is like trying to balance on slipping, sliding plates._  

“Good!” Lydia pats her arm, primly, before walking away. Over her shoulder she calls back: “I’ll pick you up at eight.”

Betty stands in the middle of the quad, feeling like the wind is going to knock her over. She can only stare after Lydia, her mind spinning. She doesn’t know what to think, or feel. _Archie rejects her and Lydia –_ what?

Betty’s pretty sure she’s just suggesting they go as friends. _Girls go as friends to dances all the time, right? That’s how she meant it . . . isn't it?_

What has she gotten herself into?

Betty, alone now, slowly uncurls her tightly clenched hands, wincing at the sight of the tiny, bloody crescents carved into her hands. 

Archie

Lydia

Staring down at her scratched palms, Betty isn't even sure what she wants.


	2. Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance?

Kevin and Danny stare at Betty when she tells them her news. They absolutely _gape_ at her, like she’s just told them the sun is going to explode, or her mother’s a secret agent. The three friends are sitting at their usual picnic table, outside the school cafeteria. The sun is shining, the grass is green, but Betty doesn’t notice any of it, because she’s too busy poking nervously at the things on her plate, unable to eat any of them, but also unable to keep looking at Kevin and Danny’s mutual expressions of shock. Her stomach is in knots from her encounter with Archie, and then Lydia.

_Lydia asking her to the semi-formal._

Across from her, Danny and Kevin exchange a long, curious glance. “You mean . . . Lydia Martin _asked you out_?” Kevin asks. “Lydia Martin, who used to be ‘little miss popularity’ until Jackson Whittemore dumped her last year? So she . . . likes girls now? I mean, sexuality _is_ fluid-”

“She meant as _friends_ ,” says Betty quickly, too quickly, because she doesn’t really know. She stabs at her soggy cafeteria pasta so she doesn’t have to look at her friends. “. . . I think. I _think_ she meant as friends. But so what? _So-what-if-I-go-out-with-a-girl,_ ” (breath) “are _you_ going to criticize me for it, Kevin Keller?”

He holds up his hands quickly. “Hardly! Just – whoa, calm down – I just meant –”

“I mean, I’m in the GSA with you guys, aren’t I?! So what if I go out with another girl?!” It comes out too loud, almost panicky-sounding, but she can’t help it.

Kevin’s brow creases. “Yeah, but I always thought you were . . . y’know, the _straight_ part of the Gay-Straight Alliance.”

_So did I,_ Betty thinks.

“Betty, what do _you_ want?” asks Danny. He reaches across the table and gently puts a hand over hers, stopping her from mashing her food into complete puddle of goo. “Would it be okay with _you_ if this was a date?”

Betty’s shoulders slump. She feels like a doll whose strings have been cut. A doll, yes – _her mother’s doll_ \- she’s been trying so hard to be good, to be normal, to be perfect. _Absolutely perfect._ She thought part of being perfect meant having the perfect boyfriend, so, obviously _Archie._ He’s sweet and kind and _good_ and they’re _best friends_. They even grew up next door to one another it’s _classic_. It should be easy.

_It should be easy._

What would Alice Cooper say if Betty went out with Lydia on a _real_ date? They’ve never talked about that sort of thing. Betty doesn’t _think_ her mother is homophobic, but Betty has no idea how Alice would react if her youngest daughter came out to her . . . _whoa!_ _Wait, wait, wait! What am I thinking of ‘coming out’ for? I’m not . . . like that . . ._

_am I?_

Betty bites her lip. She bites down so hard she tastes blood. 

Betty Cooper knows there’s nothing _wrong_ with being gay. Two of her best friends – _Kevin and Danny –_ are out and proud and she loves them. But it’s one thing to _know_ that in her head, and to love her friends, when it comes to _herself_ she slams up against a mental roadblock with the picture of “the perfect daughter” in her head and the “perfect daughter” in her head isn’t gay. _But why not?_

Her breath starts catching in her chest and her eyes are burning.

“Betty, hey, are you okay?” asks Kevin.

Danny slides around the table to sit next to her. He puts an arm around her shoulders, as though he can physically hold her together in one piece. “Betty . . . it’s alright. We’ll figure this out.”

“I’m sorry, guys – I’m fine – it’s just – Archie – ” _but_ _it isn’t really about Archie anymore_ , she realizes and is shocked by the realization. Too shocked to say it. And anyway, Kevin is nodding like he understands, like he feels bad about things not working out between her and Archie. Danny looks like he doesn’t quite buy it, but he doesn’t say anything, silently passing her a clean napkin to dab at her eyes.

“I’m sorry, just ignore me, it’s just – been a weird day, you know?”

“Lydia’s probably just looking for a friend,” says Danny. “She’s really not that bad. What?” he says, when Kevin shoots him a startled-almost-scandalized glance, “she used to date my best-friend, remember? Jeez, I _am_ still on the lacrosse team, you know. We used to see each other a lot. She’s . . . well, I don’t know if I’d call her ‘nice,’” Danny admits, “but she’s _smart_ – smarter than she lets on at school – and after what happened with Jackson . . . I could see her wanting to make some friends outside of the lacrosse team and groupies.”

“Is that what I am? Your ‘groupie’?” Kevin huffs, but he’s smiling affectionately as he says it.

“Yes,” Danny deadpans, but the smile lurking at the corners of his lips gives him away. As does the light twinkling in his eyes when he looks across the table at his boyfriend.

Betty feels a surge of love and jealousy for the both of them. She wants what they have. And . . . she doesn’t want to end up broken, like Polly, babbling about monsters in a padded room.

“Speaking of, you’re both coming to our first game of the season, right?” Danny asks.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” says Kevin instantly. The lacrosse team, it turns out, is way less homophobic than the school football team. Maybe because Danny is one of their best players, but _all_ of the guys on the team seem to like him and also accepted Kevin instantly into their fold. Even Jackson Whittemore – for all his faults – is proud to call Danny his best friend. There’s a rumor that’s one of the reasons Jackson never tried out for the school football team, despite being one of Riverdale High’s best athletes. 

Betty nods, though she hopes the lacrosse games don’t conflict with Archie’s football games – although should she even go to them, now that he’s rejected her? _Of course I should,_ she mentally scolds herself, _we’re still best friends – aren’t we?_

Before she can worry about it anymore, they’re interrupted by Stiles Stilinski, running across the grass, backpack bouncing off his shoulder, arms flailing wildly. “Guys! GUYS! GUYS!!”

He throws himself at their table, colliding with it so hard Betty winces, grabbing her milk to keep it from tipping. “Kevin! Danny!” Stiles shouts. “I have to ask you something,” says Stiles, breathing heavily from his run. “Both. Either. It’s super important.” He puts a hand on Kevin’s shoulder, pausing to catch his breath, and Danny glares.

“ _What_ , Stiles?”

Taking a deep breath, Stiles steps back, standing taller and gathering himself. “Do you guys find me attractive?”

The laugh bursts out of Betty before she can stop it, even though she _tries_ her best to smother it with her hands. Danny and Kevin _do not_ look amused.

“What? I just really need to know, okay? _Do gay guys find me attractive?_ And you _are_ gay, right? I mean, obviously, everyone knows you’re gay, this is like, _the_ gay table,” he gestures to their picnic table. Kevin sucks in his breath a little like he’s offended, but also speechless. Danny is staring at Stiles like he just sprouted a second head.

“In a _good_ way!” Stiles exclaims.

Finally, Stiles notices Betty sitting there. “Oh, hi, Betty.”

“Stiles . . . what are you _doing_?” she hisses. _He’s making an ass of himself . . ._ but it doesn’t seem quite polite to _say_ it.

“I’m just . . . look, I’m not trying to give you guys a hard time or anything, if that’s what you’re thinking!” Stiles says quickly, swallowing, his eyes darting from Kevin to Danny, who are both staring at him stonily. “I just . . . need to know if I’m attractive to gay guys. For . . . reasons. For . . . science?”

Danny sighs, shaking his head and glances across the table at Kevin. “Ignore him. Stiles is weird . . . but harmless. He probably just forgot to take his Adderall today, or something.”

“Hey!” Stiles objects, but relents when the bell rings and they get up. Betty and the boys carry their plastic trays to the garbage bins.

“Text me later,” Kevin tells her, and Betty nods, forcing the muscles of her face into something approximating a smile.

Danny and Kevin both have History, and they reach the front doors ahead of Betty. She has a spare, so she lingers, deciding to head for the library. Stiles follows her, tagging along like a lost puppy, looking like he wants to say something more to her, but can’t quite work himself up to it. They reach a set of doors, and he opens them for her. Betty rolls her eyes, shaking her head, and turns down the hall towards the library.

Stiles keeps following.

“. . . don’t you have class?” she asks.

“No! Well . . . yes,” he admits. “But, uh, look, can I ask you something?”

Betty sighs, but she doesn’t see how she’s going to get rid of him any other way. She pauses outside the library doors, turning to face Stiles and just looks at him, waiting.

“You’re friends with Jughead, right?” he asks.

“Why?” Betty arches an eyebrow, tilting her head. “Do you want to harass him, too?”

“I wasn’t - !” Stiles objects, looking genuinely upset. He takes a breath. “Right. Okay, look the truth is –” he glances up and down the hall, then grabs Betty’s arm and pulls her through the swinging double-door entrance to the library. The librarian glances up at them from her desk, frowning, then goes back to her work.

Stiles ducks behind one of the stacks – a long metal row of shelves stuffed with ancient looking, dusty books – and gestures for Betty to follow. He looks nervous, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, and she finds herself a little curious, despite herself.

Taking one more glance at the librarian, Betty follows Stiles behind the stacks, where they’re hidden by a row of encyclopaedias. Placing her hands on her hips, Betty looks at him. “Okay, what is this all about, Stiles?”

He licks his lips. “You can keep a secret, right?”

Betty groans. Why does _she_ have to be everybody else’s confidante? Before they sent her away, Betty had to listen to Polly’s problems, her infatuation with Jason Blossom and subsequent rejection. She has to listen to Archie, when he texts her at three in the morning, asking if she thinks he can make it as a musician. She listens to Ethel’s depressing poetry and sticks up for Ericka – she grabbed Reggie’s phone out of his hands when he tried to record a video of Ericka having a seizure.

She listens to her _mom_ complain about how boring her _dad_ is, and her _dad_ complain about how controlling her _mother_ is. Everywhere she goes, Betty Cooper is surrounded by a black hole of other people’s misery that she can never escape!

Of course, Betty is _nice_ and she is _friendly_ and she would _never_ say any of that out loud. So, she leans against the shelf, nodding at Stiles to go ahead, dump his problems on her. Why the Hell not?

“Okay,” says Stiles, raising his hands as though to say, _brace yourself._ His eyes are serious. Betty just feels so tired. She _in no way_ expects the words that come out of his mouth:

“I’ve sort of had a crush on your friend Jughead since third grade – he just seems so cool and original, you know? And, um, I’ve never been able to talk to him, because he only hangs out with you and Archie, and he doesn’t even _talk_ to anyone else! He’s not in any clubs I could also join, and I went to the drive-in _every_ Friday last summer – and the summer before – and he still acts like I don’t exist.”

Betty stares at him. She can’t believe _Stiles_ just came out to her. She barely even knows him! Why would he tell _her_?

_And why is it so easy for him to just say it -  just say it - just -_

She hasn’t even spoken to Jughead since she went away on her internship . . . Betty feels a sudden pang of guilt about that. She e-mailed Kevin the whole time she was gone, and texted him to come over the first night she was back, and she’s spoken to Archie and Danny, and a bunch of her other friends, but . . . Stiles is right. It _did_ used to be just her, Archie and Jughead against the world.

“. . . _So_?” Stiles asks.

Betty blinks, shaking her head and looking back at him. “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”

“ _Really?!”_ Stiles throws his hands up in the air, mouth curving. “Were you not even _listening_?! I thought you were supposed to be the _nice_ one!”

Betty is _so_ sick and tired of being known as the ‘nice’ one.

“I asked if you had any advice on getting to know Jughead –”

If Stiles really _does_ like Jughead . . . Betty rubs her eyes. She doesn’t even know if Jughead likes guys or girls. She never really thought about it. She never asked him. This conversation is just making her feel like worse and worse of a person – of a friend.

“I don’t know. Jughead’s never really been a ‘people person.’ I don’t know how he would react if you, like, asked him out directly.” She think about it for a second, before adding: “He wouldn’t like being put on the spot like that.”

“Can’t you give me _something_? I tried asking _Archie_ , but all he can think about lately is his mystery girl-” 

_Mystery Girl?_

_Archie has a Mystery Girl?_

Betty lowers her hands from her eyes. She’s staring at Stiles without even seeing him. “Archie . . . has a girlfriend?”

“Sure . . . I mean, wait, didn’t you know? Aren’t you, like, his best friend?”

_Sure . . . I thought._

_Archie has_

_a girlfriend?_

Stiles, frowning now, looks like he’s not entirely sure if he should be saying anything. But after a second he sees something in her face that convinces him to continue: “. . . they met this summer. He hooked up with her all the time, I think it started at the beginning of July. He’s never told me who she is – I swear!” he adds, like he expects Betty to start grilling him for information. “I’m sorry, I totally thought he would have told you.”

She doesn’t say anything.

Stiles continues: “just between you and me, I think it’s pretty serious. He’s writing all these songs about her. Super sappy ones, too. Yesh.”

So that’s why Archie blew her off. _For another girl._ All his talk about how he wasn’t ‘ _good enough’_ for her and he meant the opposite – he’d already met someone better; _she_ was the one who wasn’t _good enough_ . . .

“Betty? Hello? Earth to Betty Cooper?” Stiles waves a hand in front of her face, but she spins away, already walking. She heads for the doors. She has to leave.

She has to leave the library before she screams.

When she reaches the door she pauses, one hand pressed against the wood and glass. “. . . he’s writing a book,” she says quietly. “I . . . I haven’t really spoken to Jughead since I got back, but . . . I hear he’s writing a book. About what happened this summer. About Jason Blossom. . . . I hope that helps.”

_Someone should get to be happy, right?_

She’s almost crying now. Stiles looks stunned and confused. _Welcome to my world!_ she almost laughs. _It would be horrible. It would be horrible to laugh right now, she’d never stop, never stop laughing and crying! Move over sis, you’re getting a roommate in Eichen House!_

Betty swallows the sound back into her throat, pushes the library door open, and bolts.

 

 

 

LATE JUNE

 

Archie is coming off his shift at Andrews Construction, it’s the start of summer and the heat is sweltering. He’s burning in the sun and pauses to wipe the sweat off his face with his shirt. He doesn’t even notice the car pulling up beside him, until it’s right next to him. 

Glancing over, he sees the music teacher, Ms. Grundy, one hand on the wheel, the other holding a milkshake. Her eyes peered out at him from over the tops of heart-shaped sunglasses. _Her eyes are hazel, but for a moment Archie swears they flash bright, scorching hot blue._

A smile curls her lips around the straw of her drink. He sees the sharp points of her canine teeth. “Archie! What are you doing out walking in this heat?”

“Uh . . . building character?” he responds. It’s what his dad would say, anyway.

Miss Grundy smiles at that. “Would you like a ride?” she asks and he finds himself staring back at her, the heat of the summer drilling into his blood and his brain. She’s young, for a teacher and – okay, he’s not blind, she _is_ definitely hot, though of course he tries not to think about teachers that way.

And of course he’s not thinking, when he slides into the passenger seat, all sweaty and dirty from working construction all day, that she would actually _do_ something – something like lean across the car and kiss him!

Her lips are hot, her tongue is hot, her fingers, on the sides of his face, in his hair are –

He can’t think anymore, his body is responding before his mind can even catch up. All he wants is to keep kissing, keep touching. A hand curls in the back of his hair, tugging and they pause enough that Miss Grundy – _or should he be calling her Geraldine now? and his brain is screeching around trying to decide if the thought is terrifying or hilarious_ – anyway, Miss Grundy is _smelling_ him. Yeah, her face is close to his and she’s just . . . smelling.

For a moment he feels a strange sense of dread from deep in his gut, as he notices how _strong_ her grip is. She grabs his arm and her hand is like a vise. He’s not sure if he could break out of her grasp – _but that’s ridiculous, obviously he could_ , _he could, he could, right?_ – her eyes blaze into his again, and again he sees the brown and green hazel melt away, revealing a burning, glowing blue - _and he doesn’t want to get away anyway, so what does it matter?_

_What is this instinct telling him to run?_

Then Grundy’s pushing him into the backseat and he’s letting her and she’s in his lap, kissing and licking and writhing against him and his hands go to her skin like magnets, like he’s glued to her the feel of her, the smooth, hot expanses of skin.

_Were Ms. Grundy’s nails always so long?_ Archie wonders faintly, feeling them rip and scratch his shirt right off his back. He listens to the sound of the material shredding, but it doesn’t concern him.

Ms. Grundy nips at his lower lip than and he moans, unable to think of anything.

Anything else at all.

 

 

 

THE PRESENT

 

Lydia takes Betty’s arm as they enter the school gym, decorated with floor-to-ceiling banners of _Jason Blossom_ to mark the occasion. The sight of him makes Betty shiver and she pulls her wrap tighter over her shoulders. She never _liked_ the Blossoms, even before Jason broke Polly’s heart so badly she ended up in the mental ward.

She doesn’t like to think of a kid their age as _dead_ , though. It’s just so final. It’s surreal to think she isn’t going to run into him in the halls, or see him at Pop’s, ever again. She’ll never get to give him a piece of her mind for rejecting her sister. _In real life, there is no closure,_ she thinks.

But seeing his old class photos blown up to enormous size, flooding the gym between the streamers and colored lights, is just grim. Staring into the flat, lifeless eyes of the photographs makes her want to turn and leave – they make her think of how much he looks like _Archie_ , just another pale, red-headed teenager. The thought that whatever happened to Jason could have just as easily have happened to _Arch_ – _she could be walking into this gym and seeing her best friend’s face plastered everywhere_ \- makes her feel sick to her stomach.

Lydia’s small, gloved hand, tightens on her arm. “What’s wrong?”

“N-nothing. It’s just . . . _weird_ , isn’t it?”

“Hmm. Nope. People die all the time,” Lydia says in her usual bright tone. She’s wearing a shiny silver dress and a strand of black pearls. On her head is a black lacy headpiece. Her hair is more strawberry blonde, then red, Betty realizes, watching her toss it over one pale shoulder.

“Well, this is boring,” she says, dragging them over to the refreshments table.

Betty is surprised to feel the light pressure of Lydia’s hand against the small of her back, but she doesn’t _dislike_ it, either. Lydia’s wearing some fancy perfume that smells like flowers.

“I like your hair, by the way,” Lydia says. “You should wear it down more often.”

Betty’s hair is in long, golden curls that cascade down her shoulders. She’s wearing more make-up than she’s used to, as well. She ended up dressing up as much as she would have for a boy (for Archie) and she’s secretly relieved that Lydia likes it. A wave of warmth fills her and she looks away, blushing.

She’s surprised _again_ when Lydia pours her a glass of punch. “Here, drink this. You look a little flushed.”

On the stage a few yards away, Cheryl is introducing the band, _Josie and the Pussycats_. “To know them is to be _obsessed_ with them,” Cheryl declares.

Betty tries to steal a glance at Lydia when the other girl isn’t looking. She really is beautiful, though she seems somehow sad.

“Why were we never friends, Betty?” Lydia asks, catching her off guard.

“I don’t . . . I don’t really know,” Betty admits. “We just move in different circles, I guess.”

“You’re smart, Betty. Everyone says how smart and nice you are. That’s why I thought . . . maybe I should have a friend like you.”

_Right. That’s her._ She can’t clench her fist because she’s holding the plastic cup full of punch, so she sips it instead. It burns her throat, but not in a bad way. Warmth pools in her chest and Betty wonders if Reggie spiked it. _Probably._

“And then I thought . . . never mind, it’s stupid.” Lydia laughs, a tight, hollow sound that hurts Betty to hear. It’s the laugh of someone who’s already given up.

Betty takes another long sip of punch, enjoying the way it makes her feel light-headed. It makes her feel like she could do anything. She relaxes, and for the first time in a long time doesn’t feel the urge to clench her fists or smother her screams. ( _inside I’m screaming, all the time, inside I’m -)_

Tossing her head, Betty smiles as Josie’s band begins playing a cover of _All Through the Night_. She sets down her empty cup and grabs Lydia’s hand with a sudden surge of bravery. Lydia’s perfectly shaped eyebrows rise sharply in a question.

“Well, we’re here,” Betty says, “don’t you want to dance?”

Lydia’s brown eyes are open wide and she hesitates, looking around nervously. Suddenly, the tables are turned and Betty is the courageous one. She realizes she likes it.

_All through the night_

_this precious time when time is new_

“I . . . I don’t . . .”

“Come on, Lydia,” Betty hears herself saying. A laugh tickles the back of her throat. “Live a little!”

Lydia can’t quite hide the smile that stretches across her face – a sudden, genuine smile. She grips Betty’s hand tightly, tossing her head a little as she follows her onto the dance floor. “ _Fine_. Let’s go. Carpe diem!”

_We have no past we won’t reach back_

Lydia’s arms reach around her and they start swaying in time to the music. For the first time in a long time Betty actually feels _happy_ – happy to be back in Riverdale, back at school, back with her friends . . . old and new.

“See, I _knew_ you were going to be a superb best friend,” says Lydia, their foreheads brushing slightly so Betty can feel a few strands of the other girl’s hair brush her face, her neck. It sends an electric tingle up her spine. She almost tugs Lydia closer on instinct, but manages to stop herself. She still doesn’t know what this is. Is this Lydia being sad about Jackson and needing a friend _– a distraction? –_ and what does Betty want it to be?

She doesn’t realize that across the gymnasium, Cheryl Blossom is watching with her friends, a cruel smirk stretching across her face.

 

*        *        *

 

The woods around Sweetwater River feel different in the dark. The dry branches crackle like bones, shifting in the wind. Jughead glimpses the flashing lights of the police cruisers in the distance. He hears Kevin’s dad barking orders at an underling, and Stiles is quickly motioning for him to follow as he slips deeper into the woods, away from the lights.

At least now he knows Stiles wasn’t making the whole thing up.

They ditched Stiles’ jeep a few blocks back and Jughead had the sinking worry that this was all the set-up for some cruel, elaborate Reggie-esque prank. But the cops are real enough and something definitely happened down by the water.

_Half the body_ , if Stiles is telling the truth, which it seems more and more likely he is.

Jughead stumbles and Stiles automatically reaches out an arm to steady him. Jughead jerks away from the contact and Stiles frowns, but turns his attention to the ground, where he’s shining a powerful flashlight – probably lifted from the sheriff’s office, so it’s powerful, but there’s nothing to see but dead leaves and twigs and rocks.

Jughead feels relieved by that. He doesn’t really want to see . . . whatever it is they came out here to see. “Stiles . . . why are we doing this?”

“To help you write your book,” says Stiles. “Also, come on, how _cool_ is this? A real-life murder-mystery? In Riverdale?”

Jughead eyes Stiles carefully in the glow given off by the flashlight, but it’s hard to look at him that way since the light hurts his eyes. After a few seconds, Jughead turns back to examining the ground. The night is dark – inky black around them, and the light barely seems to dent it. Tendrils of a chill crawl up his spine.

“So . . . do you think Jason had any enemies? Do you think Cheryl knows more than she’s telling?”

Well, obviously the original story – _Cheryl’s story, about dropping a glove, the boat capsizing_ – is fake. Reality is being rewritten while they watch. _Stories within stories_ and Jughead doesn’t know what’s possible anymore.

_You don’t know what’s coming._

A cold wind blows off the lake, rustling the branches overhead. Jughead looks up and sees the tall bare arms of the trees, scratching skeletally at the black void of the sky. It’s only September, but the ground at their feet is littered with dead leaves. They get caught up in the current of air rising off the river and swirl around Jughead’s feet, brushing his jeans.

Something crunches through the undergrowth, twigs snap and shatter. _Just a squirrel,_ he tells himself.

In the distance, he hears a howl, lone and ragged and rising towards the sky. Gooseflesh shivers across his skin. “Did you hear that?”

Stiles frowns, spinning around, the flashlight bobbing everywhere. “There aren’t any _wolves_ in Riverdale!”

Dark shapes come charging through the night, crashing and tearing through the bushes. _Deer,_ he realizes. _It’s a herd of deer!_

The animals leap and bound, one falls and utters a bleating cry so desperate it sends a chill down his spine. The stag scrambles on its four legs to regain its footing and Jughead can’t stop staring. Stiles grabs his arm, pulling him out of the way before he’s gored. “Watch out!”

Stiles pulls him close and they both stumble as the living wave of deer crash down on all sides. They pour out of the dark wood – it must be every deer in the forest. Stiles clutches him and Jughead can’t even object, because the animals are _everywhere_ , stampeding, and he never noticed how _big_ deer are until he has a dozen of them running all around him, threatening to trample him at any second. Their pointed hooves gouge into the dirt, kicking up chunks of soil and they toss antlered heads, destroying the surrounding bushes in their efforts to flee.

Stiles and Jughead huddle against a tree for a second, then a deer nearly clips them and Stiles pushes him, screaming at him to run.  

They try to get away, clinging too close and tripping over each other’s feet. The next thing Jughead knows, the ground is gone and they’re falling. They’ve run straight off the edge of a ravine. He falls, Stiles falling with him, and the two tumble over loose soil, sliding and skidding to the bottom of the cliff.

When they finally stop, Jughead sits up, gasping and Stiles lurches up next to him. “Shit! Are you alright?” Stiles asks, searching on the ground for the flashlight. “Shit, shit – what _was_ that?”

Jughead stands shakily, trying to brush some of the dirt off his jacket and jeans. They’re deep in the woods now, and they’ll have to find their way back, some way that doesn’t involve climbing back up the steep wall of the ravine, because he doubts either of them could manage it.

“That was . . . intense,” Jughead admits.

Stiles looks over at him, the clouds clearing away from the moon enough that he can see the half-smile on his face. Reaching toward him, Jughead thinks for one strange second that Stiles is about to touch his face, but then he plucks a leaf out of his crown beanie and laughs. After a second, Jughead laughs too. He can’t believe they’re still alive.

“What the hell would make deer act that way?” Stiles asks.

_Almost like they were being chased._ Jughead frowns. His foot hits something hard on the ground, and he realizes it’s the flashlight. He picks it up, and after a couple of tries it turns back on. He sweeps the beam across the ground and nearly screams, jumping back. All the blood turns to ice in his veins.

He drops the light and it rolls a few feet before Stiles bend and retrieves it, but he doesn’t alter the angle of the beam. Because it’s shining right on Jason Blossom’s face.

Jughead can’t breathe. _Jason –_ his face, looking more like a mask, a poorly made one, even _. It doesn’t look like you,_ he thinks, wanting to close his eyes but unable to look away.

Jason’s eyes are wide and blank, he’s staring at _something_ with a look of utter horror frozen on his face, now forever. He’s lying on the ground, on his chest, but his head is turned to the side, facing them. One of his arms is raised as though he was trying to crawl away. And glancing down . . . Jughead makes a strangled sound, stumbling and almost falling in the gore-riddled grass. Stiles grabs him tightly, pulling him back.

Jason’s torso ends in a ragged, bloody mess, dark lumps (organs? He’s not going to examine this too closely) spilling out, into the dirt. He glimpses a shard of white bone and almost pukes.

Distantly, he hears his own voice saying, “oh my god, oh my god . . .” without meaning to. He can’t stop. He can’t stop staring and shaking.

“God, Jason . . .” Stiles murmurs, finally turning the flashlight away. He’s still holding onto Jughead, supporting him, and Jughead’s glad because, in that moment, he doesn’t think he can support himself. His hand unconsciously seeks Stiles’, where it rests at Jughead’s waist. He presses his fingers over Stiles’.

Stiles pulls him closer and Jughead is too numb with shock to object. He pulls him into a hug and Jughead would think _it’s been a long time since anyone did that,_ if his mind wasn’t full of _Jason_ \- _Jason’s body, Jason’s glassy, lifeless eyes staring in horror at . ._ . something.

“Hey . . . it’ll be okay, we just have to find my dad, tell him we know where the . . . where the . . . uhh . . .” Stiles tenses and Jughead thinks at first it’s from the hug, that the jock suddenly remembered this kind of contact should be making him uncomfortable, but it’s not that - “What the hell?” Stiles whispers against his ear and Jughead lifts his head off his shoulder and turns to follow his gaze, into the dark, shifting trees.

At first all he can see are shadows, dark black swathes of shadow . . . but then he notices the shadows are actually a shape, an impossibly huge, hulking shape, with two sharp, glittering eyes throwing back the dark. He can roughly make out the pointed ears of a wolf, but the thing is too huge, the body - from what he can see as it slowly stretches and turns – is closer to that of a _gorilla_ , than a canine.

It moves then, padding slowly into the moonlight. Stiles seems to have forgotten he has the flashlight, and drops it when the beast approaches, clinging to Jughead more tightly. “Oh crap, we’re gonna die. I just wanted to hang out with you and now we’re gonna die.”

The thing growls, a sound that ripples through flesh and bone and makes Jughead’s insides liquefy. Its eyes are red – _red, red, red_ glowing hotter and brighter than any real, actual animal that ever lived. Its face is just _wrong_ for a wolf, its snout too short, but when the lips curl back it reveals incredibly long, brutal teeth. Fangs like a collection of knives, like its maw is a steel bear-trap.

Its claws scratch against the ground and it moves towards them in a low, slinky way, ears tipped in their direction, completely focused – _ready to lunge._

He feels a sudden jolt as Stiles pushes him away. “Run, Jughead!” he shouts, before dropping to the ground. Jughead is about to yell _what the hell are you doing?!_ Before he sees Stiles lift a large rock.

“Jughead, _RUN!_ ” Stiles screams, turning to throw the rock at the monster. It’s a good throw and Jughead watches it sail up and fall smack into the monster’s head. There’s a heavy thud, but the beast shakes out its thick, black pelt and mane. It opens its mouth, unleashing a roar –

_In the animal kingdom, only lions can roar,_ Jughead thinks, his brain shooting out impossible, useless trivia as his bones turn to jelly and he can’t even remember how to scream.

Stiles tries to pull him, but his legs are noodles and he falls flat on his face. He hears Stiles yelling, but the next thing he knows the beast is on top of him. Now he does scream, striking at the furry mound of hard flesh and thick, wiry hair.

Hot pain cuts into Jughead’s side and a hundred needles jab into him at once. Jughead screams again, hands clawing uselessly at the huge mass. _It’s going to kill me_ , he thinks wildly, desperately, _it killed Jason, and now it’s going to kill me, I’m going to die –_

He hears a huge, splintering _CRACK_ and for a second thinks one of his bones has been ripped off and snapped, everything hurts so much he can’t tell, either way. But no, it’s a stick, a branch, broken across the thing’s skull.

The monster rears back at that, snarling and snapping at Stiles, who tosses the remains of the stick at its face before ducking and rolling to the side. Stiles hefts another rock and pitches it straight at the thing’s face, again. And _again_ he hits him, this time on the snout and the animal jumps back, apparently hurt.

He’s scrabbling then, reaching for Jughead, pulling him away. Blood pours down his side, soaking his shirt and jeans, hot and sticky-wet against his fingers. Jughead gasps as Stiles hauls him to his feet and then they’re running – _running_ like Jughead’s never run in his _life_. The movement makes the blood pump out faster and hotter.

They scramble over loose stones and twigs snap, striking him in the face, slicing his cheeks with thin, sharp scratches. His pulse is beating in his skull like a drum, but somehow he feels the coolness rising off the river, hears the current, and tugs Stiles’ hand. “This way!”

Finally, he can’t run anymore, he’s gasping and collapses against Stiles as the two stumble out of the wood, onto the road. The road that runs by the river, and is loaded with police cars and officers. A hundred lights seem to turn in their direction at once. Someone is shouting at them, but all Jughead can hear is the roar of his own blood and the current.

_His dream, the river, Jason, the blood in the water, Jason extending his hand-_

Jughead presses a hand to his side, gasping and shaking.

“What are you kids doing out here at this time of night?” a voice demands, thick with suspicion. Jughead instinctively cringes, but _Hell_ , it’s not like they can go _back_ – not back into the woods with that _thing_ in there!

As he regains the ability to focus, he sees Kevin’s dad, shining a light at them, looking ready to arrest them both on the spot. “What exactly do you boys know about this?”

“It’s alright, Deputy,” a tired voice interrupts, “this troublemaker belongs to me.”

Deputy Keller gives them an extremely unfriendly look, before shaking his head in disgust. He backs away, rejoining the investigation, and allowing Sheriff Stilinski to come forward and greet his son. The sheriff’s arms are crossed and he’s shaking his head. But he doesn’t seem terribly surprised, either. “So . . . do you listen in on _all_ my phone calls?”

“No!” Stiles fidgets uncomfortably, still supporting Jughead, which makes it even more awkward. “. . . well, not the boring ones.”

Sheriff Stilinski seems to be supressing a groan at this. His eyes drift slowly to Jughead. “This isn’t your usual partner in crime,” he notes. “Scott busy tonight?”

“ _Dad_ -” Stiles tries, the sheriff ignores him, still focused on Jughead.

“You got a name, son?" 

Jughead doesn’t say anything, _he’s tense and still shaking and that thing bit him and_

“Oh, Dad, this is Jughead-” Stiles answers for him. “Jughead, this is my dad – the sheriff . . .”

_Yes, I know,_ Jughead thinks, but doesn’t say, choosing instead to glare at Stiles. _Everyone in the town knows who the sheriff is!_ How much trouble, exactly, has Stiles gotten them into?

As though reading his mind, the older Stilinski says, to his son: “And let me guess, you’re such a great friend you decided to get him in trouble, too?”

“No! I . . .” Stiles sighs. “. . . I thought looking for a dead body in the woods at night would make a pretty kick-ass first date, alright?”

Jughead freezes. He stares at Stiles in shock, mortified that he would _joke_ about that in front of the sheriff. He glances at the older Stilinski, who looks surprised, but only for a second or so, before the look of complete exasperation returns. “Alright, boys, I don’t know what this is, but it’s time for you to go home.”

“Dad, Jughead needs help –”

Stilinski looks concerned at that, lifting his radio – maybe to call for an ambulance, so Jughead quickly jerks away from Stiles. The last thing he wants is some paramedic touching him, or being taken to the hospital – _how’s he going to pay for a trip the ER?_

“No! No, I don’t,” Jughead says, loudly.

“ _Uh, yes_ , you do!” Stiles growls back. “You’re hurt!” He grabs Jughead’s wrist, but Jughead yanks out of his grip, staggering away.

“I’m _FINE_ ,” he shouts, hand plastered to his side. He hopes that in the dark, with his jacket covering it, Sheriff Stilinski won’t be able to see the blood. “We found him – the – the body,” he says, deciding to give the police something else to worry about.

“ _What?”_

Stiles looks angry at him, but nods, and begins describing it to his dad. He leaves out any mention of the monster with glowing red eyes - which Jughead thinks is just as well. Who the hell would believe them anyway? _It wasn’t a wolf . . . it wasn’t a bear . . . what the hell was it?_

He presses his hand to his side. He’ll need to get home – _ha! Likely story, Jughead –_ he shakes his head. He has some first aid supplies hidden away at the drive-in. He can patch himself up. He’ll be fine. He doesn’t need the Stilinskis, or his own dad, or anyone else.

He begins walking away, ignoring Stiles, who yells after him to wait. Stiles is still being questioned by his dad and can’t get away – good.

_Everything hurts._ His head hurts and his side hurts and he’s bleeding and he’s pretty sure he’s never going to sleep again, not with that things _red-red-red_ eyes burned into the back of his brain. Not to mention

_Jason_

The sight of Jason’s body, lying there, like that, in the dirt. Jughead stumbles. Tears bite at the back of his eyes. _Fuck, no. Keep going._

He stumbles again. He’s managed to get through the police, and he definitely didn’t look at the place near the shore where they found the rest of Jason. He feels so heavy, his head weighs a million pounds and every step forwards sends a sharp jolt of pain through his side.

How far is it to the Twilight Drive-In, where he’s been living? A couple of miles, at least. He – well, he has no choice. He _has_ to keep going, doesn’t he?

Jughead shuffles his feet in the dirt and somehow managing to stay upright.

The blood runs over his fingers, dripping off and falling in the dark. _Pieces of himself being swallowed by the night._ He can’t see how bad it is and that would make him (terrified) worried, if he thought about it, which he chooses not to, because he can do that because—

_“Hey, babe, that looks like quite a nasty bite.”_

Jughead stumbles again, this time falling to his knees. He barely feels the fresh pain of gravel slamming into his knees, cutting his jeans, because _Jason is standing front of him._

His pale skin is nearly translucent, but it _is_ him – his full, pink lips curve into a smile and it isn’t exactly a kind one. Yellow eyes look down at him and Jughead has to swallow his scream. His body is shaking so badly it hurts. He feels like he’s been plunged underwater into freezing, distant depths. He doesn’t know how much more of this he can take.

_Maybe he is going mad._

_Maybe they should bundle him up, send him to Eichen House._

_“Oh, no, you’re not crazy,”_ says Jason. _“That bite connects you to me. What’s left of me, which isn’t much. But you’re part of our world now. Jug . . . ha . . .” his laugh his small and strangled. “Oh, Jughead . . . I_ am _sorry.”_

“Your world . . . what’s that? The world of the dead?”

Jason shrugs his thin shoulders. He’s wearing a white blouse and white slacks. It would make him look _angelic_ , except his expression remains distinctly cold and anyway, Jason Blossom could _never_ be an angel. _“Maybe. The bite will either kill you, or turn you, but it won’t leave you unchanged.”_

The words make no sense and Jughead starts coughing. His eyes well up with burning, salty tears. “Why are you doing this? Why-”

_“I’m not the one who bit you. And I warned you, didn’t I? I told you no one could find out about us.”_

“I didn’t tell anyone!” Jughead sobs. He hunches over, the pain in his side growing and growing until it feels like he’s on fire, like he’s being swallowed up in the pain. His body is wracked with convulsive shaking and he can no longer keep his eyes open. Tears squeeze out, falling on his cheeks and dripping down his face. “Jason . . .”

_“I know. I know it hurts. I’m sorry, babe.”_

 

 


	3. how cheerfully he seems to grin, how neatly spreads his claws

Jughead sits at his usual booth at Pop Tate’s, everything feels familiar – from the fabric of the seat that he slides into so comfortably now, like it’s been waiting for him, to the warm buzzing glow of the neon lights, to the sound of the fryer humming in the back and coffee percolating in tall gleaming brewers. Pop is strangely absent, but whatever, he’s probably just in the kitchen.

Jughead’s laptop sits in front of him; his fingers hover above the keyboard. He’s encased by that nice, numbing glow of the screen, the serenity of the blank white space of the word document.

But now he hesitates.

“ _I think we had all been hoping against hope that Jason hadn’t really drowned on July fourth_ ,” he types, heart thudding, and wonders if that gives too much away.

But isn’t the whole point of this book to tell the truth _?_ Hasn’t he already decided that?

He keeps typing:

_“We all hoped we’d come to school Monday morning, and there Jason would be, strolling down the hall in his bulky letterman jacket, smiling at something, hair burning carnelian in the sunlight.”_

He sees Jason then, as he was, striding through the crowded halls of Riverdale High with that careless, easy athletic grace. His blue eyes find Jughead so easily – _too easily –_ and his full pink lips quirk into a smile. _A grin. A cheerful grin._

Before the eyes turn yellow.

The table holding his laptop shakes and Jughead grabs the computer, a sudden shard of pain ricocheting through the back of his skull. _Because._ No. There was no hope of that now, Jason _hadn’t_ drowned, but he also hadn’t slipped away on some secret jaunt. He wasn’t going to saunter back to Riverdale, laughing with his jock buddies, telling tales of his rebellious teenage adventure. _Not ever again._ He was

_-Jughead remembers-_

torn in half. And Jughead _saw_ him, saw what was left of him, his skin grey and blue, his eyes wide and blank. He saw Jason’s stiff arm stretched forwards, as though reaching

and

Looking down, Jughead sees water pour from his laptop. It’s vicious black (river) water. It bubbles up from between the keys, spilling over his hands – _so cold it burns his fingers -_ spitting on the counter beneath. He can’t let go of the laptop, watches it disintegrate like it was made of cardboard and mud, folding in on itself in a rush that explodes across the table, splattering his chest and hands.

He smells blood.

The table is smeared with red.

That’s when he remembers this is a dream, but that doesn’t stop his heart from pounding in his chest like it wants to explode. He just wants to _wake the Hell up_ (or _does_ he?) because he just remembered that Jason is dead – _really, definitely, definitively dead_ –

In the dream, the diner is full of dead trees. They wave needle-razor branches in his face and Jughead stumbles, batting them away, feet sliding in what he thinks is mud.

He falls down, down, down and turns to where the body is supposed to be (he just _knows_ , in the way of _dreams_ , it’s meant to be there) but instead Jughead is crawling on his hands and knees in the dirt, wiping blood off his face and staring into the eyes of a long-dead dog.

The animal’s been brutally butchered – _cut in half at the waist_ – and he’s looking at its head, its snout still wrinkled with rage or pain, lips pulls back in a snarl revealing horrifically elongated teeth.

_It’s not a dog – it’s a wolf,_ some part of his brain kicks into gear and screams.

He’s staring at its flat, dead eyes, like cloudy marbles, and its reddish, matted fur that looks almost like –

(fuck, no)

A flash of memory takes over the dream – he’s lying beneath Jason on the banks of the Sweetwater River. The sun glints down at them, knife-bright when it hits, but on and off through a thick blanket of overcast, angry clouds. When it strikes Jason’s hair suddenly it lights up all fire embers and Jughead can’t help reaching up to brush it with his fingers, the artfully combed wave in front –

He’s touching the dead dog’s fur, when the animal – obviously dead, _long dead and cut in half_ – jerks beneath his touch. Jughead can’t move, he’s frozen like roots grew out of his knees. The dead wolf lunges up, growling and snapping, barreling into him.

The shocking, painful weight forces him back and he feels hot agony explode in his side. He clutches his skin, just above his hip and feels warm blood smear his fingers.

Jughead wakes up. He’s crumpled on the floor of the drive-in projector booth. There’s not much floor between the cot he’s squeezed in and the projection equipment, the shelves of old film reels and his meager possessions.

He can’t remember getting back to the _Twilight Drive-In._ He remembers stumbling down the highway, the pain slicing through his side almost enough to drive him mad -

_He imagined he saw -_

_He thought he saw -_

Breathing heavily, Jughead grabs the beanie off his head and tosses it aside. His hair is soaked with sweat and is plastered to his forehead. He feels like he’s on fire, but he can’t stop shaking.

Outside, the wind howls and moans like a wild animal – a lurching, hungry beast – and Jughead shudders, curling in on himself. The booth is small and when the wind blows it goes straight through the walls. That usually doesn’t matter, but now it feels like those walls are shaking, trembling, about to come crashing down.

( _I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll . . .)_

His entire side is soaked with blood. The bite is itchy and crusted-over and sharp lances of pain split his skull every time he tries to move. His throat is painfully dry, lips cracked, and he can’t stop shaking. The wind howls and moans, making him cringe and cover his ears as the flimsy walls shutter and the projector rattles.   

On the wall, one of the movie posters comes loose and falls - the thick sheet of paper flopping over his cot and scraping against the floor, where it curls.

Jughead closes his eyes and breathes, and wills his heart to stop racing.

Gradually the storm dies down. The walls stop shaking. He’s still breathing.

Wincing in preparation for the pain, Jughead makes another attempt at getting up – and finds he can sit up quite easily. He’s sweaty and clammy and gross, but the pain that was so fucking _loud_ has gone numb – maybe the pain sensors in his brain have short-circuited or something. His clothes are stiff with hardened blood, but he manages to pull his phone out of his pocket.

He turns it on, just so he has a light, and shines it down the side of his body, grimacing at the gory ruination of his outfit. He doesn’t exactly have an unlimited supply of clothes in the booth with him, but at least he has another pair of jeans and a couple more hoodies. _These will have to go in the trash._ He’s pretty sure they aren’t salvageable. For one thing, there’s a bite-sized chunk torn out of the hoodie. His denim jacket escaped being shredded, but it is stained with blood that he really, really, really hopes he can get out at the laundry mat.

Gingerly, he peels the ruined cloth away from his skin, searching for the wound. He needs to put some hydrogen peroxide on it, and he’s got some bandages in the bottom of his bag somewhere, so he should be able to do this.

Except that he can’t find the wound.

Twisting around – _still no pain_ \- Jughead tries to angle the light on his phone better, but while there’s certainly a lot of _blood_ , he can’t find the actual puncture marks.

_Maybe the bite wasn’t really that deep,_ he thinks, near-delirious.

Peeling off his ruined shirts, Jughead chucks them in the corner, setting the jacket aside for better daylight-inspection. He’s still shaking, and now the sweat stuck on his skin is giving him a chill, but, at least that horrible pain’s abated. He probes his side gently, and finds a sore spot, what feels like a huge bruise in the dark, but no leaking cuts, so. _So what?_ He doesn’t know what this means.

Waves of exhaustion roll over him. He pushes the poster off his cot and flops down. It’s marginally more comfortable than the floor, maybe. It hardly matters since he doesn’t have time to feel it before he crashes into nothingness. This time there are no dreams.

 

*          *          *

 

Betty is _not_ thinking about Cheryl’s party last night. _Definitely not._ School starts in twenty minutes and she should leave.

She pulls her ponytail into place, tugging it so tight it hurts. At the collar of her pressed, white blouse glint matching silver broaches. She’s wearing a pink sweater. She looks the same as ever. Good.

_Well, good._

She slams her hand down on top of her vanity, mentally screaming at herself to stop replaying the night before.

Sucking in a deep breath, Betty squares her shoulders and looks herself head-on in the mirror. She doesn’t _look_ like she’s about to scream, or cry or smash the mirror into a million billion super-sharp silver little pieces. _Good._ She raises a clenched fist, almost intending to do just that – _just smash it, just –_ but catches herself at the last second, clenching those fists more tightly.

_No._ Why is she letting _Lydia Martin_ get to her so easily? After once dance. One. Stupid. Dance.

_Come on, Cooper, get a hold of yourself._

_Get a hold of yourself, so you don’t end up like Polly._

If only she listened to her own advice.

 

 

EIGHT HOURS AGO

 

The dance is winding down. Lydia looks at her, head tilted thoughtfully, smiling with her cherry-red painted lips. Betty’s always liked cherries. She finds herself staring, wondering what it would be like to kiss those lips. “Well, thank you for a wonderful time, Betty,” Lydia chirps.

“Yeah . . . of course, no problem. Uh, you too,” Betty says awkwardly.

Lydia laughs, but not meanly.

They’re about to leave the gym when Ginger, one of Cheryl Blossom’s hangers-on, gets in the way. The girl has one manicured hand on her hip, and stands staring down her nose at Betty with frank disdain. “Cheryl wants you to come to her party, or something.”

_Yeah, right,_ thinks Betty, who knows the only reason _Cheryl Blossom_ would invite her is to mess with her. “Well, we were just leaving,” she says, forcing her usual bright-polite smile. “So tell Cheryl thanks anyway.”

She tenses a little as Tina joins Ginger, casually blocking their egress. Tina’s arms are crossed and she’s twisting and untwisting a strand of her hair. “Cheryl gets what she wants.”

“What are you, her henchwomen?” asks Lydia, and Betty smirks.

“We’re her . . . friends?” says Tina, but she says it a little uncertainly, like she’s not sure.

Betty feels a chill, creeped out by their behaviour. Even for _Cheryl Blossom’s_ crowd, this is weird.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” she tells Lydia, wanting to touch the other girl’s arm, but not-quite daring. They danced a bunch of times, but what does that even mean?  

Ginger leans in conspiratorially close to Lydia, getting between her and Betty, basically shoving Betty aside. “You know . . .” she says, purring, “ _Jackson_ will be there.”

_Jackson_ , as in Lydia’s _ex_ , as in the asshole who broke up with her in front of their mutual friends by calling her _a piece of deadweight_. Betty grimaces in disgust.

_So, who the hell cares where he is, or what he’s doing,_ Betty thinks, rolling her eyes. _Seriously, no thank you,_ she almost says – takes a breath, opens her mouth - but the look on Lydia’s face stops her dead cold with spiky tendrils of dread.

That _look_ – Lydia’s wide brown eyes, now soft with concern, her red lips curved downwards and trembling. She turns to Betty, glancing at her, but her eyes dart back to Cheryl’s girls. “Well . . . I mean, who doesn’t love a party?”

“Lydia!” Betty hisses, but Lydia is already walking away from her, heels clicking on the floor.

She half-turns. “Well, are you coming? It’s like you said – don’t you want to live a little? The night’s young!”

Ginger and Tina smile, cats that have caught their canaries. They almost lick their lips.

_I shouldn’t go with them,_ Betty tells herself sternly. _I should leave right now._ But she looks at the curve of Lydia’s face in the light streaming in from the school gym – the magic, twinkling colored light - and she can’t. She is caught in the jaws of beauty and longing, just like she was with Archie, and finds herself following Lydia. _Another redhead who wants someone else. I guess that’s my type._

They drive in silence.

_Thornhill_ is foreboding, the grim stone walls looming up out of the night, spreading against the dark. The sharp pointed angles of the roof jut up, scraping against the speckling mess of cold, alien stars. The windows are shadowed and not a trace of warmth or welcome comes from the estate.

Even Cheryl’s _supposed_ friends, Tina and Ginger, appear a little nervous when they pass through the massive oak doors.

Betty unconsciously moves closer to Lydia. Her fingers search for the other girl’s hand, but Lydia snaps hers away. “. . . what are you doing?” she laughs quietly, her breath tickling Betty’s ear.

“Nothing, sorry,” says Betty, but Lydia is already walking ahead.

They come to a lounge flooded with the warm rose glow of a fireplace. Candles burn in iron holders and lamps give off a soft, eerie light. The room is filled with expensive, random, furniture– an antique grandfather clock, a Victorian fainting couch, gilt-edged mirrors. Betty instantly feels uncomfortable, an intruder in this stiff opulence.

She perches on a hard sofa next to Lydia. Reggie Mantle, already quite drunk if his giggling is any indication, is sprawled on an armchair across from them. No sign of the infamous _Jackson Whittemore_ , but there are people milling around everywhere, drinking and chatting.

Betty feels like spiders are crawling up her spine and wishes she could just go home.

Their hostess finally appears. Cheryl wears a fire-engine red dress with a plunging neckline. Her long crimson hair tumbles over one bare shoulder and her milky skin has a faint lustre. The fire crackling in the grate throws dancing shadows over everything, giving the room a sleepy touch of unreality. Long dark tongues lick at the corners of their eyes.

Cheryl’s grin is full of fake cheer that never reaches her eyes. “It’s game time at _Chez Blossom_ , my cuties.”

On Betty’s left, Lydia makes a show of appearing bored, studying her fingernails and humming to herself. Betty is envious of her disinterest. A sinking feeling is filling her own gut and she swallows in dread as Cheryl’s eyes settle on her.

“We’re going old school tonight – a little classic.” Presenting an empty wine bottle, Cheryl places it down on the coffee table in front of them with a little flourish. “ _Ta-da_!”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “If I wanted to play ‘spin the bottle,’ Cheryl, I’d build a time machine and go back to 1950.”

Cheryl acts like she doesn’t hear Lydia, but Betty thinks she does. She thinks her body gets even stiffer and more mannequin. More frozen. That horrible grin never leaves her face, grows more grotesque by the moment.

“So, who wants a tryst in the closet of love, first, mmmm? My vote is _B,_ for _Betty_.” Sing-song voice. We’re all friends here. _Yeah, right._

“Ha! Yes! Right on,” slurs Reggie and Betty fights back a wave of nausea. She stares at Cheryl with something like horror.

“Relax,” says Lydia. “Cheryl can’t make you do anything you don’t want to.”

“Oh. That’s right,” says Cheryl, batting her eyelashes, all sugary-sweetness, “my girls Tina and Ginger said they saw you two getting all _the L-word_ at the dance. It doesn’t surprise me you wouldn’t want to kiss _a boy_.” Some people titter around the room. One person whistles in the dim light, Betty can’t see who. “Let me be the first to congratulate you on your alternative lifestyle choice.” It’s meant as a _slight_ , which irritates Betty worst of all. The idea that Cheryl would use this – whatever fragile, magical thing is taking shape between her and Lydia - to try and get _a rise_. Her insides are tangled up, a whipping whirl of anger and frustration. But she doesn’t want to give Cheryl the satisfaction.

Around them, the Blossom’s large drawing room falls uncomfortably silent. Betty has the sense everyone is holding their breath, listening in. She’s blushing and she hates that she’s blushing. Her damn complexion is betraying her.

Suddenly, Lydia grabs her hand.

Lydia, who has been hot and cold this whole night. She smiles, looking up at Cheryl. “Bite me, you Blossom bitch.”

Cheryl’s lips curl back then, Betty just has time to think - _how sharp her teeth are!_ \- before Lydia presses her shoulder gently, turning Betty to face her. She leans forwards.

And the next thing Betty knows, Lydia is kissing her.

It’s like she’s never been kissed before. Everything melts away. Lydia’s lips are soft and smooth and perfect and Betty kisses back without thinking, acting on instinct, on impulse. Hungry. Searching.

The kiss goes deeper than maybe Lydia intended. For a moment it really _is_ magic – for a moment, _they’re just two girls_ _floating on air_ –

Then Reggie whistles and the other jocks start laughing and clapping and Betty jerks back like she’s been stung. Lydia’s eyebrows raise slightly, a considering look on her face. She shrugs as though to say, _‘hey, not bad,’_ before turning back to Cheryl.

Their hostess looks flustered, annoyed. She expected them to get embarrassed, to deny it. Betty glares back at her.

_For a moment, everything is fine._

_For a moment, they’re winning._

Then Lydia gets up and walks away.

Cheryl sniffs. “Oh. Well, isn’t your new GF just a little high strung, Betty?”

Betty gets up to follow Lydia, edging around the chairs. Reggie makes kissy faces at her. “Hot show blondie, I’d pay to see the rest.”

She ignores him, running down the hall, trying to find Lydia. Trying to ignore the eyes following her, crawling over her bare shoulders. Her pink skirts rustle and she’s clutching her purse so hard she thinks she might wreak it – twisting it as hard as she can in her hands.

“Lydia?” she shouts down the cavernous halls of Thornhill. “ _Lydia_?!”

Betty runs through shadows and cold spots and finds Lydia at the front doors of the mansion, standing frozen on the threshold and staring out into the night. Betty can’t see her face, but she turns slowly, almost mechanically, when she hears Betty approaching.

Her face is that plastic mask Betty is so used to seeing on girls like her – _girls like her and Cheryl Blossom_ – and her eyes don’t meet Betty, glancing off into the dark somewhere above her left shoulder. “So, you need a ride back, right?”

“Lydia – what was that?!”

Lydia plays dumb, shaking her head. Lips pressed together. “What was what?” she asks innocently, one finger tapping her chin.

“ _That_! You _kissed_ me – _in front of everybody_ – and now you’re acting like – _like_ –”

“Oh – _thaaaat_ – ” Lydia, fiddling with the straps of her purse, her bracelets, her hair, “that was just – just for fun. You know. _Fun._ You _have_ heard of the concept, haven’t you? The boys were drooling, and I mean, what are we? Nuns?” She flips her hair back – her long, red (strawberry) waterfall hair. “I bet they’ll be lining up to ask you out after this, Betty. So, don’t worry about that, ‘kay?”

Betty feels cold wash over her. She feels a black hole open up inside of her.  “That’s not what I’m – that’s not what I want –”

“What _are_ you talking about?” Lydia laughs nervously.

Betty takes a step towards her and Lydia takes a step back, until her spine hits the edge of the door. She looks fragile, somehow, wounded, and Betty feels bad that she forced this retreat. Lydia is so confident; she shouldn’t ever be the one to lose ground. 

But the next things she says make Betty angry all over again. “Look, Betty, you’re great, but I’m not looking for a relationship at the moment. I’m looking for a distraction.”

“A distraction,” Betty repeats dully. And she thinks: _I’ve been an idiot. I did it again. I fell for someone who will never want me back._ _Classic Betty Cooper._ She could almost laugh if she wasn’t so close to crying. Her nails carve the flesh from her palms, the biting sting drawing blood.

Betty stomps past her, out into the September night. “Betty! I’m parked over –”

“I’ll walk,” she says.

“ _Betty_ – _come on - it's late!”_

She ignores her, and keeps walking. And doesn’t look back.

 

 

THE PRESENT

 

Now it’s morning, and Betty makes her way downstairs slowly, dreading school and the inevitable comments and catcalls. Dreading questions from her friends, however well-meaning. Dreading whatever explanation she’ll have to come up with to give them. Dreading _Lydia_. There’s a stone in her throat at the thought, but – also – her palms still hurt from how badly she gouged them last night.

Betty’s mother is waiting for her downstairs. Alice Cooper sets her morning cup of tea aside in its matching saucer, daintily, and rises to kiss Betty goodbye for school. After a second, she stands back, placing a firm hand on Betty’s shoulder.

“You know what I love about you, Betty? It’s that you always try to see the _good_ in people.” Her eyes are hard though, and Betty has a difficult time meeting them. She feels ashamed by what happened. She feels stupid. “But sometimes people aren’t what they seem. Sometimes there’s a monster inside of them. Sometimes . . .”

Betty pulls out of her mother’s grasp. “There’s no monster inside of Lydia Martin, Mom,” she says, hoping her voice doesn’t crack too noticeably at that, “ _or_ Archie Andrews. You just don’t like redheads.”

Her mother’s frown deepens. “I’m serious, young lady. There are dangers out there, in this world. I worry about you. About how you keep letting these people hurt you.”

“Yeah, well . . .” Betty shrugs, because she can’t think of a way to finish that sentence. People _do_ keep her hurting her, but it doesn’t feel like she’s letting them, _it feels like she can’t make them stop!_

 

*          *          *

 

Jughead drags himself to school, because what else is he going to do? Sit around in the cramped confines of the projector booth, staring at the pile of bloody clothes in the corner? The pain is gone and he still can’t find the wound, only a major bruise and a set of faded scars that look like they’ve been there forever.

The nightmares have faded too, and he can tell himself he didn’t see Jason walking next to him as he made his way back to the Twilight.

 

_(“What matters it how far we go?” his scaly friend replied._

_“There is another shore, you know, upon the other side.”)_

 

 Jughead retrieves his crumpled beanie from the floor and jams it over his head. He feels naked without it.

At school, Jughead passes the trophy case and there’s a picture of Jason that stabs him. Cheesy memorial signs and hand-made sympathy cards, cheap plastic flowers, all the crap Jason would have wrinkled his nose and laughed at. His eyes are pulled back to the photo – _Jason decked out in his football gear_ – when he glimpses another redhead out of the corner of his eye. 

Archie passes him, headed to his locker.

Archie in his lettermen jacket, because he’s got to be some varsity football playing douchebro this year. _Like Jason._ Because the universe just likes twisting that knife.

But despite everything, Jughead misses Archie.

And he almost died last night, so.

Jughead crosses the hall, leans against the locker next to Archie’s, waiting for the other boy to notice him. Archie glances up, sees him, but doesn’t say anything. He winces slightly, and this makes Jughead’s heart hurt _,_ but he refuses to give up and slink away silently. _He_ wasn’t the one that did anything wrong last summer. So he crosses his arms and struggles to think of something to say. Something neutral to break the ice.

What comes out of his mouth is far from neutral. “So. The weirdest thing. This summer, we were supposed to go on a road trip on the July Fourth weekend. Which you bailed on, at the last minute.”

Archie pales and Jughead ( _imagines?)_ he can hear the other boy’s heart rate increasing. Jughead’s brow creases. He’s not exactly functioning at one hundred percent, after what happened to him last night, but he just wants Archie to _speak_ to him again.

Instead he _hears_ his heartbeat. He _smells_ him sweating.

Jughead clears his throat, trying to ignore whatever he’s experiencing. He settles his gaze on Archie. “. . . Is there something you wanna tell me, pal?”

Archie’s mouth compresses into a tight frown. “Mind your own business,” he snaps, slamming his locker shut.

The sound is loud – _too loud_ , like a thunderclap – and Jughead jumps. Archie doesn’t see, he’s turned away, walking quickly towards the music room.

Jughead fights back a wave of anger and hurt, frustration – all he wants is an _explanation_ , is it really that Archie just doesn’t like him anymore? Did he do something? Say something? What made Archie ditch him – toss him aside like a piece of trash?

Or maybe it’s just that Jughead doesn’t fit in with the life Archie is making for himself in their sophomore year – he can’t hang with the jocks, the cheerleaders, the preppies. Maybe Archie finds him embarrassing - the poor kid, the loner, the weirdo. An awkward holdover from elementary school, when things like that didn’t seem to matter.

  
Maybe they’ll never be friends again. 

Jughead pushes away from the lockers, stumbling, not knowing what he’s doing or where he’s going – and runs right into Stiles.

“ _JUGHEAD!”_ Stiles shouts, so loud people turn and look at them.

Face burning, Jughead reluctantly turns to face him. Stiles is remarkably unselfconscious and seems neither to notice, nor care about all the people staring. His hands land on Jughead’s arms. “ _OhmyGod_ – are you alright? Did you go to the hospital? Did you get a tetanus shot? I drove around for hours, looking for you! Are you okay?”

Jughead stares at him – Stiles _does_ look tired. There are heavy bags under his eyes and he’s paler than normal. Still. He drove around for _hours_? “ . . . why?”

He didn’t think it was possible, but somehow Stiles’ eyes get even wider – nearly bugging out of his head. “Because I was _worried_ about you! – because you got mauled by a – a --” Stiles finally catches himself, glancing around at their surroundings – the crowded hallways of Riverdale High.

He lowers his voice, staring at Jughead intensely. “ _Are_ you okay?”

He shrugs. “Sure, I guess.”

“Wha – buh - there could be internal damage and – not to mention disease -”

“I’m _fine_ , Stiles,” he turns to walk away, but Stiles follows, dogging his steps. Jughead sighs. “Look, I think it only scratched me, after all.”

“But I _saw_ it –”

Jughead glares and Stiles shuts up. Jughead stalks off, head down so he doesn’t have to look at anyone. He doesn’t know what Stiles is playing at, and he tells himself he doesn’t want to.

 

*          *          *

 

It doesn’t take long for news of the grim discovery to spread. Stiles’ dad comes on the school announcements with Principal Weatherbee, informing anyone who somehow hadn’t already heard via the rumor mill about Jason. They’re treating it as a murder investigation – _open and ongoing_. Cheryl vows that they’re going to send whoever’s responsible to the electric chair.

There’s a curfew is in place, but Stiles is pretty sure everyone will ignore that.

The student lounge is already abuzz with kids talking about it, when Stiles and Scott walk in. Stiles is telling his best friend about finding the body – sparing none of the gory details. Though he doesn’t mention the creature.

Scott frowns, shaking his head. His shoulders slump. “Man, a real dead body? That is so cool. I can’t believe you didn’t invite me!”

Stiles stops walking and _looks_ at him.

“Oh – oh _right_ ,” Scott blushes slightly. “ _Jughead._ I forgot . . . ”

“You _forgot_ the person I’ve had a crush on since third grade? Dude, you’ve _seen_ how many crowns I draw in the corners of my notebook.”

Scott ignores this. “So, are you two, like, dating now?”

“ _No_ ,” Stiles sighs. “Somehow, finding the body wasn’t as romantic as I figured.”

Scott gives him the same look his dad and his guidance counsellor sometimes give him. “Dude, you thought that would be _romantic_?” 

“Wha – the woods, at night, how is that any different then – then a moonlit stroll on the beach? It’s practically a cliché!”

Scott shakes his head, patting Stiles’ shoulder, and Stiles opens his mouth to explain further, but falls silent when they enter the lounge and he hears Reggie complaining loudly to everyone who will listen about Stiles’ dad _daring_ to question him - _Mantle the Magnificent._ Stiles snorts. Yeah, how dare the police actually _investigate_ a crime?

The lacrosse players look unimpressed, but the football players and cheerleaders are hanging off his every word. He tosses a football back and forth with Moose.

Archie is already there, and he glances at Stiles and Scott, half-smiling. He shrugs at Reggie, shaking his head as though to say, _yeah, he’s a jerk, but what can you do?_

Stiles notices Jughead leaning by the vending machine. Stiles swallows. Jughead, arms crossed, observes the students chattering around him with a kind of detached interest. And Stiles observes _him_. He looks incredibly, in Stiles opinion, cool.

But Stiles feels cautious about approaching Jughead again, after getting blown off this morning _._

“Uh . . . hi,” Stiles mumbles, fishing out a dollar for the snack machine. Jughead glances at him, but looks away again. Observing the jocks.

Stiles puts his dollar into the machine. _Aaand_ his Reese’s Pieces get stuck. Because of course they do. _Stupid piece of . . ._ he raises a hand to whack the glass, aware that Reggie is still talking, blathering on, but it’s just background noise as far as Stiles is concerned.

“. . . I mean, let’s think about it,” says Reggie. “If a kid at Riverdale killed Jason, it’s not gonna be a _jock_ , am I right? No, let’s be honest . . . Isn’t it always some spooky, scrawny pathetic internet troll, too busy writing his manifestos to get laid? Some smug serial killer fan-boy freak?”

_Wow, Reggie. You are_ soooo _insightful. Sure are a regular Sherlock Holmes,_ Stiles thinks, resting his head against the glass door of the machine in defeat. He’s _really_ tired after last night and frustrated that Jughead still won’t give him the time of day.

“Yeah . . .” Reggie continues his train of thought, “Somebody . . . like _Jughead_!”

The student lounge falls still, listening. Stiles shivers, looking up.

Beside him, Jughead has stiffened, though it’s barely perceptible. He’s able to keep that cool look in place, Stiles notes with some awe. Reggie grins, looking directly at them. Stiles’ stomach clenches, he turns away from the machine, hands balled into fists.  

“What was it like, _Suicide Squad_? When you _killed_ Jason?” asks Reggie.

Stiles’ mouth opens, he’s about to tell Reggie to _go fuck himself_ , but Jughead, standing beside him, doesn’t even flicker an eyelash. He looks small though, for the first time, Stiles notices, small compared to the size of the football players.

“Keller said you were out there, in the woods, with the body. You didn’t _do stuff_ to it out there, did you? I bet you did – I bet that’s why you were out there – cause a freak like you can’t make it with a l _iving_ –”

Jughead’s gaze is unimpressed. “It’s called _necrophilia_ , Reggie.” The word slides off his tongue. Stiles glances at him in surprise and Jughead raises his eyebrows, shrugging slightly. “Can you spell it?”

Stiles let out a bark of laughter, and once he starts it ripples through the entire lounge.

Reggie jumps like he’s been shocked and leaps out of his seat, fists swinging.

Stiles throws himself between Reggie and Jughead, because, well, yeah, might as well try, right? Maybe Jughead will say something nice at his funeral.

“Out of the way, Stilinski,” Reggie growls. His fist wavers mid-punch because Stiles does have that whole _technically-the-sheriff’s-son_ thing going for him.

“Reggie, the 90s called they want their stock brainless jock stereotype back.”

The next thing he knows, Reggie’s fists are in his shirt and he’s hauling him up and slamming him into the wall so hard he sees stars. Painful, painful stars.

“Why you little rat! You think I _care_ who your dad is?! I’m gonna break your fucking face!”

Archie and Scott each grab one of Reggie’s arms, hauling him back, so that Stiles slides shakily to the ground.

“Come on, Reg, back off,” says Archie.

“Why? What do you care, Andrews?” Reggie looks at him, suspicion and disgust on his face. “Oh my god, are you some kinda fag? Do you _like_ him or something?”

“N-no!”

(Does Stiles _imagine_ he sees Jughead flinch at that?)

Archie looks away for a second – as Danny and Isaac climb over the chairs to join Scott. They look ready to tear Reggie a new one if he doesn’t back down. “We just don’t need you starting a war between the football and lacrosse teams, alright?”

Reggie laughs, too-loud – he’s nervous, Stiles thinks. “ _What?_ What do you guys care about these fags?!”

Archie looks embarrassed, but the lacrosse team only steps closer, closing in ranks. “Don’t use that word,” says Scott, looking like a twig compared to Reggie, but not backing down.

And it must be a cold day in Hell, because Jackson – who sure doesn’t give a flying fuck about Stiles or Jughead - stands up and strides over, muscles showing beneath his tight shirt. “Get your homophobic ass out of here, Mantle!”

People actually _cheer_ at that – popular people, _cheerleaders_ \- and for the first time Reggie hesitates. He plasters a shit-eating grin on his face because jocks like him, they’re assholes, but they want to be _popular_. They want that more than almost anything. “Hey, I was kidding, guys. I was _kidding_. Relax. Jug and I, we’re old buddies. We go way back. He knows I didn’t mean anything.”

_He wasn’t kidding,_ Stiles knows, but the danger ebbs – it doesn’t disappear, but it _ebbs._ Stiles sees Reggie’s eyes though, when he shoves past them, his eyes and the curl of his lip, and he knows it’s not over. Far from it. Reggie is just going to wait until there are fewer witnesses around to get his revenge.

After a second, Scott nudges him and Stiles realizes that Jughead is staring at him, that thoughtful, faintly quizzical expression on his face.

Stiles swallows around the lump in his throat. So, Jughead’s finally noticed him, and all it took was finding a dead body and almost getting squashed like a bug by Reggie Mantle. Awesome.

Archie pauses for a moment, but follows Reggie and the rest of the football players when they make their exit.

Scott’s the one who approaches Jughead, after they’re gone. “Hey, d’you wanna sit with us?”

Jughead looks surprised at the invitation. Surprised and wary, like an animal cautious of traps. “What?”

“Come,” says Stiles, waving his arms, “eat. Drink. Be merry?” he glances at Scott, nervous, and Scott looks unimpressed, almost pained.

One of Jughead’s eyebrows crawls higher in genuine confusion. The three of them stand frozen like that for the next twenty (incredibly awkward) seconds, Stiles feeling more and more nervous. Jughead is an enigma and one that needs to be approached very carefully.

He wishes he knew what the story was there – why the other kid is so guarded, so closed off, so wary. It has to be about more than Reggie Mantle being an asshole.

The bell saves them and Stiles breathes a sigh of relief.

Looks like he's going to live to fight another day, at least.


	4. still she haunts me, phantomwise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **trigger warning for dub-con** between Archie and Miss Grundy. It's implied, not explicit, but I think I should probably warn for it anyway.

 

Archie can’t stop thinking about her.

It’s a constant buzzing in his ears – _Geraldine Grundy, Geraldine Grundy._ She's  _always_ at the edges of his brain. Quietly, at first, she _hums_ like vibrations of energy. Like she's a dark current set up inside his head. She's a whisper at first. Then, louder. 

And somewhere, distantly, the thought: _this isn’t a good idea._

_This isn’t healthy._

But then _she_ takes over - louder, louder - pushing all other thoughts out of his head. He can’t hear anything else, not over the crackling buzz of _her_ in his thoughts _._

_Her, her, her_ \- the blood rush-roars in his head. His skin burns with _want –_ or something - because she’s _there_ – _Geraldine Grundy_ \- she’s _in his brain_ , moving through thought and shadow. Her long white teeth flash out of the inky black. Her eyes change color to a burning blue that pierces his thought. Too-bright, photoshopped blue. _Glowing_ blue. Her skin ripples like water, like a sweet river with an ice-cold current.

Archie sees Miss Grundy in his dreams. He’s lived July fourth in his head so many times, he no longer trusts himself to remember it right. _And surely he can’t – doesn’t –_

Every time he closes his eyes he’s there again, with her, by the river’s edge. Her car is parked a few feet away, they’ve spread a blanket out over the long wild grass. The wind rises off the water, and she looks at him, hair blowing in her face, over her cheeks. 

He smells her skin, tastes her sweat. He can’t rest. He can’t think about anything else.

_Again and again._

Miss Grundy’s in his skull like a fire. Sometimes late at night Archie catches himself awake, lying in bed, kicking the covers off so the night air can cool his overheated skin. The long red scratch marks she made on him throb not-unpleasantly. His breath quickens in his chest. His palms itch. Sometimes then, he thinks, she might burn him alive completely, from the inside out, until his skin runs and slides off like wax, or until he crumbles into a puddle of flaky ash.

Yeah, still, he wants her. _Still._

And that thought terrifies him, when he lets it.

_He didn’t even know there were such things in the world-_

Archie shuts his eyes again, blotting out the dark smooth expanse of his bedroom ceiling. He feels trapped in his room, his dad down the hall, the small house closing in on him like it might crush him. Break his chest, smother his windpipe. _A cage, a cage, a cage!_ his mind shrieks.

Archie bolts up, throwing off the covers. He pulls his sweatpants on automatically, in a kind of daze, same with his runners.

He doesn’t remember taking the stairs, or opening the door, but the next thing he knows the night air is sweet against his face. The next thing he knows he’s running through the dark, deserted streets. Riverdale is a different place at two a.m. The moon is overhead – not full yet, no, but getting there. _Swelling._ It paints the world in cold frost tones, but Archie doesn’t feel cold. Just the opposite - like his skin's a too-heavy coat he can’t peel off.

_She could –_

_No._ Archie squeezes his eyes shut, still running, pushing himself through that darkness. If he runs far enough, maybe he’ll forget. If he runs fast enough, maybe he’ll outrun the desire that’s still lacing through his veins.

Somehow he knows that’s not the case.

He doesn’t even know where he’s going.

 

  

JULY 4th

 

They’re lying on the banks of the Sweetwater River, lingering in that early morning gold-edged haze. Her car is close by. They spread a blanket, like for a picnic. She lies there, the wind in her hair. A light mist rises off the water and Archie feels like they’re on another planet. A planet just for them. He can’t get enough of her. Can’t believe he could be so lucky – _clumsy, skinny, freckle-faced Archie Andrews_ – what does a woman – an honest to god _woman_ \-  what does _a complete fox_ like Miss Grundy even see in him? 

He thinks maybe if he spends enough time with her, he’ll see it too. Maybe he wouldn’t just be _that kid_ – he’s not popular, not unpopular either, he’s just _there_ , unremarkable. _Alone._ His mom took off for Chicago. His best friend’s in New York. His other best friend –

_Wait –_ thinking of _Jughead,_ Archie feels a flash of something – almost panic. A thought tickles the back of his head. The date, _July fourth,_ booms like fireworks exploding behind his eyelids. He sways, almost toppling. His hands curl in the picnic blanket. He’s kneeling on it. _When did - ?_

Wasn’t there _something_ \- wasn’t there s _omething_ about _Jughead and July fourth . . . ?_

He can’t think –

. . . _something he was going to do?_

A brief flash of panic – _why can’t he remember?_ What –

Archie’s head is heavy and hurts – suddenly, or he just noticed it – and his hand trembles. Archie stares at his own hand in shock and disbelief. _Never seen his hand shake before, why now, why –_

Miss Grundy frowns, sits up on the blanket and grabs his shaking hand. Her long, strong fingers curl around his. Her nails scratch lightly at his palm. He shivers. He looks up into her eyes. He forgets whatever he was trying to think about.

Whatever it was, it made him worried and Archie doesn’t want to feel worried. He’s young, he should be having fun. It’s July fourth.

He doesn’t want the headache or that tight knot of guilt in his guts -

_What does he have to feel guilty about?_

His brain is about to spit out an answer when Miss Grundy leans forward and captures his mouth in a hot, hungry kiss and thoughts shut up because his body is kindling catching and the flames caught.

Archie leans forwards to kiss her again, but she stops him, putting a hand gently – but firmly – on his shoulder. She looks up at him, the wind off the river shifting her long brown hair. Strands slide across her face and he brushes them back, taking a breath. He still doesn’t know if he should be calling her “Geraldine” or “Miss Grundy.” Sometimes the confusion over this is so strong he can’t say anything a all. She doesn’t seem to mind.

In fact, now, she puts a finger to his lips. _Hush._ She smiles, but she also looks nervous.

He doesn’t know why– they’ve already done everything.

“ _Sshh_. Archie. _Sshh,_ sweetie, I . . .” her hand curves around the back of his neck. She licks her lips. He finds himself watching her tongue. Staring at her mouth.

“I have to show you something.”

He barely hears her words. He just wants to kiss her again.

“It’s a secret. You can keep a secret, can’t you, Archie?”

He finds himself nodding. Not knowing that those words will echo through him for days – _for weeks, for months_ – after this moment. Not knowing how weighted words can be. How dangerous.

_You can keep a secret, can’t you, Archie?_

Miss Grundy slides out from under him.

She stands up, the wind at her back blowing her long hair around her face, hiding her features in a dark, shifting cloud. She reaches up slowly and begins taking off her clothes. Archie’s heart picks up pace. The wind catches the rippling, billowing material of her blouse and it slides across the grass, towards him. He picks up her shirt, crumpling the soft fabric in his sweaty hands. He can’t speak around the lump in his throat. She’s beautiful. 

For a moment, Miss Grundy is beautiful.

And then she starts taking off her skin. Peeling the smooth, pink flesh off her already skinny frame. Revealing red muscle, white bone and – _Fur. Dark, bristling, angry fur_  

Archie can’t stop looking. He can’t move. A scream wells up in his throat, but his jaw is frozen shut too tightly to let it out. _Stop, please stop, for the love of God STOP IT!_ he’s screaming inside his head, but she can’t hear him – nobody can. Nobody can hear his screams.

He thinks he should get up and run away. He thinks he should get up and _stop_ her. He thinks she’s hurting herself. Then he thinks, no, it’s worse than that. _She isn’t._ The wind moves her hair again and he can see that her smile is frozen in place. _Only,_ Archie realizes suddenly, _it’s not a smile. It’s a leer._   

There’s a horrible wet ripping sound and the rest of Miss Grundy falls in the grass. He’s staring into the burning blue eyes of a wolf. The wolf sits in front of him, barks once, so shrilly that Archie jumps. He jumps but he doesn’t run, he doesn’t think he _can_ run. His legs are too weak. He can’t remember how to stand up.

The corners of the universe slam and break. His thoughts are a dam bursting inside of him. He thinks he must be sleeping, dreaming. He thinks he must be going insane.

The wolf moves forwards and its long, rolling tongue licks his face. He realizes he’s weeping-

  

 

THE PRESENT

 

Archie comes out of his trance, the sweat cooling on his forehead and bare chest. It suddenly gives him a chill and he shivers. There’s a flash of vertigo when he sees the house in front of him, the house his feet brought him to while he was lost in memories of dark fur and fangs. 

He didn’t scream that day, on the bank, but he did scramble backwards, he did kick their blanket and turn to run, only to bang clumsily into the parked car. He fell back, dazed, and the wolf padded closer to him, again, long tail swishing, breath stinking against his skin.

_You can keep a secret, can’t you, Archie?_

He’s standing in front of her house. Of course he is. Archie wants to laugh, or maybe cry. He wants her. He’s terrified of her. He can’t stop thinking about her. All of these things are rolled up into one massive, burning, twisting coil in his gut. 

There’s no one he can go to. There’s no one he can talk to about this. No one that wouldn’t take him to the hospital, and then, _Eichen House_ – he shudders, picturing its grim gothic façade and small locked rooms. He can’t stand the thought of being locked up in a place like that. But worse, he can’t stand the thought of what it would do to his _dad._ He can picture Fred Andrews’ disappointed-sad-crushed expression. 

His mom already left, he can’t desert his dad, too.

No, he can’t tell anyone about what he’s seen.

Archie stands outside Miss Grundy’s house for a long time, heart pounding, sweat drying on his skin. His throat hurts and he remembers that day, by the water, crying, saying over and over again that he wouldn’t tell anyone. _Yes, Miss Grundy, yes, I can keep a secret! No, I won’t tell anyone, no, not anyone, not ever, I promise, I promise –_

He should leave. He _can’t_ leave. His sneakers are rooted to her driveway.

_How many times has he done this, since that day?_ How many nights, pulled from his bed in a trance, half in memory, half asleep. All through the summer, it was like she called to him, like he was bound by an invisible tether. He always came. His friends stopped talking to him. Jughead is pissed at him for some reason. Betty wants things he can no longer give her, or anyone, anyone but – 

A light clicks on inside and the front door swings open. Miss Grundy is wearing a robe and her hair is a mess. She leans against the doorframe, looking out at him. She frowns, like maybe for the first time she didn’t really expect or want him to come.

Her arms are wrapped around herself. She looks skinny, almost fragile, really, in that mask of skin and bone. It’s a lie, he knows that now. “Archie.”

He wants to run. He wants to go closer. He can’t even force a single sound through his lips.

She is beautiful and terrible. How can he _not_ keep coming back? She is like nothing else in this world. She is impossible. A goddess.

Archie takes one step towards her, then another and another. Miss Grundy’s frown shifts into a smile, that familiar flash, sharp and bright. _So she did call him, somehow, inside. Again._ His pulse quickens and the hair on the back of his arms raises, but his feet keep moving, obediently, towards her.

Miss Grundy raises one hand, curls a finger, beckoning, and slides back into the house.

Archie follows, head spinning. A sharp descent into vertigo as the music teacher’s house spins in front of him. The light from her kitchen is too bright and hurts his head, stabbing daggers of pain burn through his eyeballs, into his skull. Archie staggers and has to grip the edge of the door to hold himself upright. He blinks, shaking his head and feels a rush of nausea.

 “Jenny, what have you done to this kid?” a man’s voice, growly and deep. Archie feels a momentary lurch of panic. There’s never been anyone else here, all of the times he’s met Grundy at her house. And who’s _Jenny_? Did the man call her _Jenny_? _Her first name is Geraldine . . ._  

Miss Grundy’s hand is on his arm and the sick, dizzy feeling clears mostly from his head. She leads him away from the entrance and he hears the front door click shut behind him. Black spots dance in front of his eyes. He blinks, squinting at the harshness of the light.

The man makes a disgusted sound. “You turned him into a _thrall_?” there’s a distinct growl in his voice. Archie shivers at the sound, thinks that he doesn’t like this man, whoever he is. Also, he doesn’t know what a ‘thrall’ is.

“Do you have any idea how stupid - how _dangerous_ -”

“Would you relax?” Miss Grundy, now, Archie feels her arm wrap around him. How funny they must look, _her_ holding _him_ up. “Archie Andrews is completely harmless.” 

“And you think no one in town is going to notice his sudden change in behaviour? You think his _family_ won’t wonder why he’s getting out of bed and disappearing in the middle of the night? Damn it, Jenny this is how witch hunts get started!” 

Archie’s eyes finally clear enough for him to see the man standing in Miss Grundy’s kitchen. At first he’s surprised, he thought the man would be Miss Grundy’s age, but he’s not. He’s not a teenager, either, but Archie thinks he’s _closer_ to his age, maybe nineteen or twenty. He’s wearing a black leather jacket and is sporting dark stubble. For a moment he wonders if he’s one of the Southside Serpents.

Miss Grundy is still pressed tight to Archie’s side, now she rests the sharp point of her chin on his bare shoulder. “Leave, Derek. I told you I’m not joining your pack.”

The man frowns, a crease appearing along his brow. His eyes darken. “Jen-” 

“ _Go_.”

“This boy –” 

Miss Grundy’s arm slides around his stomach, and Archie suddenly remembers, with a jolt, that he’s shirtless. He shivers at the contact of her arm sliding along his stomach, but he’s distinctly uncomfortable with this stranger standing there, staring at them. Staring – more like glowering. He stalks towards them and Archie straightens – his instinct to protect Miss Grundy. _He feels her smile into the curve of his neck._ _Her fingers dance across his belly._

Derek’s nostrils flare. He leans forward so suddenly Archie has no time to react. One hand curls around the back of Archie’s neck, yanking him closer. Grundy is dislodged, staggers to the side with a grunt, shooting evil-eyes at Derek, but she doesn’t protest when Derek – _what is Derek doing?_  

Archie swallows as Derek’s face comes so close to his own that he can feel a crackle of electricity between them, like there’s a charge coming off the other man’s skin. He’s . . . smelling him.

“. . . human,” mutters Derek, glaring at Grundy. “He’s _human_. Like I thought. What have you done?” 

_Human? As opposed to - ?_ Then it hits Archie – Derek is like Miss Grundy. _Geraldine. Jennifer._ He shudders, his skin crawling as _he remembers peeling flesh, sloughed off like a blouse and skirt. He remembers flashes of fur and gleaming fangs._

Miss Grundy’s voice is peevish. “Since when do you care about humans?” 

“I care about people with pitchforks and torches coming to knock down our doors!” Derek snarls. “I care about them finding out about us!” 

She flinches and Archie moves to keep himself between them. “L-leave her alone.”

Derek looks at him, really looks at him for the first time. “. . . you don’t even know what you’re saying,” he says finally and something in his eyes makes Archie freeze. There’s pain there. Old pain. Derek turns to face Miss Grundy. “End this. _Now_.” 

Her eyes glow blue, her lips curl back revealing lengthening, sharpening teeth. “You’re not _my_ alpha, Derek.” 

The two stand staring at each other, and Archie can _feel_ the growls rumbling in the air like distant thunder, rolling closer. The hair on the back of his neck prickles and stands on end. Derek glares at him and Miss Grundy, the disproval deep on his face.

Then he turns and stomps out of the house, banging the front door loudly. It crashes closed with enough force to splinter the wooden frame. Archie winces.

He glances at Miss Grundy, not sure what just happened, not sure what to say. “Miss Grun– _Geraldine_ –”

She sighs, wipes some stray strands of hair out of her face and turns away. Apparently the mood’s been spoiled, because she waves at him, her back turned. Dismissive. “Go _home_ , Archie.” 

He wants to protest, but he’s shaken. His tongue feels like lead. He doesn’t have a choice anyway, the next thing he knows he’s already back out, in the night, again.

 

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

Jughead’s been feeling off since that night, in the woods with Stiles and the . . . whatever. Not sick, exactly, though the nights are hard – it’s getting harder to fall asleep, curled on his uncomfortable cot in the drive-in. He’s alternately too hot – burning, like his skin's on fire – and too cold. He wakes chilled, shivering and can’t stop shaking even with his jacket on over his sweatshirt, and the blanket pulled tight around him. But during the day he’s not tired – he’s _restless_. His body’s full of nervous energy. His leg jangles. His feet bounce. He wants to get up and pace. He wants to _run_ , which is _weird_ , because Jughead’s not exactly an athlete. _Physically lazy, mentally active –_ that’s always how Jughead’s always seen himself.

Now, though . . . he’s not sure. Not sure what’s happening to him. 

_He heard Archie’s heart beat the other day, smelled him . . ._ Okay, that’s weird, but it’s just his weird, overactive imagination. _Right?_ He tries not to think about it too hard. Tries not to think about vanishing bites (or ghosts) or monsters. Tries not think about how much he _smells_ in the school now – layers and layers of overlapping scents. It makes him want to claw at his face, or run outside just to get a breath of air. He never realized how many _smells_ were in the school, how each individual student and teacher has their own signature scent. Or how the odors linger, leaving trails in the air.

He thinks he might be losing it.

He’s walking by the music room when he _smells_ Archie. The whiff takes him off guard, nearly throwing him, but he does pause. Everything about this is _weird_ : _Archie has a scent, Jughead can recognize it, and another smell, someone else._ Jughead’s brow creases. He slows his gait without meaning to. Curious, despite himself. Archie keeps blowing him off – _he doesn’t want to be friends anymore._  

Still, though.

Jughead realizes he can _hear_ them. His ears prickle. He can hear Archie and Miss Grundy, the music teacher, through the walls and the closed doors. He can hear them, across the hall. If he concentrates (which he is) he can hear them clearly, above the noises of the other students going to lockers, chatting, shuffling around.

Before he even has time to wonder _why_ Archie is in there, alone (he can smell they’re alone) with Miss Grundy, he finds himself listening.

Archie asks, “who was that last night? Who was that guy?” 

“No one. Don’t worry about it.”

“But he . . . he was _like you_ , wasn’t he?”

Jughead frowns, nearly walking into the wall. He stops, leans against the lockers. He pulls out his phone so he has something to look at, so it doesn’t look like he’s just standing there zoning out, staring into space.

“Oh, Archie, don’t worry about that . . . that man. It doesn’t affect us. I’m sure you won’t see him again.” Miss Grundy’s voice is sweet – _too_ -sweet, the kind of sweet that’s acting. The voice Jughead’s mom used when she told him she and Jellybean were just going to be away for a “few days.” _That_ kind of voice. “He’s no one to worry about.”

“But he said – he was worried about – about us. About _you_. He made it sound like you were in danger, because of – because of us –” 

“Well, _ye-e-es,_ but only if people find out. And no one is going to find out, are they, Archie? Because you can keep a secret.”

Archie’s voice then, murmurs back in a tone so blank and expressionless it causes Jughead to drop his phone. He shivers at the sound of it, at the complete . . . hollowness of it. _“I can keep a secret.”_

“ _Goood_ ,” Miss Grundy purrs.

Jughead glances up, but from where he’s positioned he can’t see anything but the wall. There are small windows on the classroom door, but he doesn’t want to move. Whatever’s happening – _happening to Arch_ , the thought turns his stomach – it sends a sharp spike of dread through Jughead’s spine.

There is _something wrong_ with the way Miss Grundy smells, he realizes. He may have noticed it sooner if this whole heightened-senses thing wasn’t so new and disorienting.

Archie is speaking again though, mumbling this time, quietly and even with his senses so sharp, Jughead has to strain to hear him through the wall. “It’s just lately, I feel – I feel sometimes like I’m in a dream,” Archie is saying, “I feel foggy all the time. I feel like – like I don’t know what’s real anymore.” 

Miss Grundy hums and says something low, whispered.

“But I keep _forgetting_ things,” Archie’s voice now sounds scared, and Jughead feels a surge of protectiveness. He glances up and down the hall. It’s empty. He inches closer to the music room, and peaks in the door. Miss Grundy is standing close to Archie – _too close_. Her hand running up and down the side of his face, _like she’s petting a dog,_ Jughead thinks.

She leans closer to him. Archie, murmuring over and over again, in the tones of frightened child who’s just woken from a bad dream: “but is this real? Is this real? Miss Grundy, is any of this –” 

She shifts her head and Jughead ducks quickly, turning away from the door and sliding down the wall, heart hammering in his chest. _Miss Grundy she’s – she’s –_

Jughead doesn’t know _what_ Miss Grundy is, but she’s _not_ right. She’s dangerous, a fact he can feel deep in his bones. He wants to run in there and drag Archie away from her by force, but something makes him hesitate. Some instinct that urges caution. He realizes he’s trembling.

When the bell rings he jumps and nearly screams.

He makes sure he’s long gone before Archie or Miss Grundy leave the room.

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

Class is chemistry, and after what he’s just heard (and smelt, and saw) Jughead is restless and aggravated. He doesn’t want to be there, can barely concentrate. He taps his pen against the desk so hard the top pops off, skitters away. He hardly hears when the teacher tells them to find a partner.

_Whatever, no one wants to be my partner, anyway._ Jughead’s used to doing team assignments solo. So he experiences a jolt of surprise when a backpack is flung on the desk, and a body drops on the stool next to him. He glances over to see Stiles, a lopsided grin on his face, offering him a – _somewhat_   _nervous?_ – wave.

“Uh . . . hi. So yeah, hi.”

Jughead is momentarily amused to see Scott, Stiles’ best friend usual partner, giving him a dismayed _‘what the fuck, dude?’_ look a few desks over. Scott ends up being paired with Moose. That's not a good combination.

If Jughead was the talkative sort, he might ask about that, but he’s not. He glances down at his unopened notebook and wonders what they’re even supposed to be doing. 

Stiles is the opposite of Jughead in the speech department. He won’t shut up. “So how are you doing? After – um, everything. Good? Still good? I just thought . . .” he gestures vaguely, Jughead narrows his eyes at the other boy in suspicion. He still can’t quite figure out Stiles’ game. Besides, how can even _answer_ that?

Then a thought hits him: maybe if he _does_ , and answers  _honestly_ , Stiles will be so creeped out by his obvious _growing insanity_ that he will leave him alone.

“Actually, I . . .”

“Yes?” Stiles leans forward, so intent Jughead immediately feels his throat close up again. He shakes his head.

In front of them, Lydia Martin has just pushed Ethel out of the way to sit next to Betty. The blonde jumps out of her seat, eyes flashing angrily. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Lydia presses her lips together, tilting her head quizzically. “Working with you, Betty. Isn't it obvious?”

“I don’t think so!” Betty’s face is flushed. She looks really upset. Jughead frowns, wondering if he should say something. _It’s not_ – he doesn’t like getting involved, but Betty’s his friend. _Was once_ , anyway. He hates seeing her looking like she’s about to cry.

“Is there a problem?” the teacher calls out from the front of the class. 

“No, sir,” Lydia smiles, reaching for Betty’s hand, apparently to pull her back into her seat.

Betty jerks away from her like she’s been burned, snatches her books off the desk and stalks out of the classroom. Lydia stares after her, open-mouthed. A few people start whispering and giggling. Jughead wants to yell at them to shut up, to leave her alone, but of course he doesn’t – can’t. He sits frozen as the teacher calls after Betty, threatening her with detention.

Betty still doesn’t come back. Jughead stares down at his notebook again. He flips it open and closed mindlessly. The Betty he knew would have rather _died_ than get detention.

In front of him, Lydia is pale and miserable. Looking at the quiet devastation in the slope of her shoulders, the heave of a sigh, Jughead thinks how everything’s coming unhinged around him _– Archie, Betty, his family, his life –_  

He keeps staring at his notebook, wishing he didn’t have to think. Wishing he wasn’t here. Wishing everything was different.

“Everything alright?” Stiles asks. 

Jughead guesses he doesn’t look much better than Lydia, at the moment. “That night . . . since that thing in the woods . . . since it bit me,” he says quietly.

“Ha! It _did_ bite you! I knew it did,” says Stiles. The teacher glares at them and Jughead grimaces. Stiles’ drops his voice to a whisper. “Sorry, sorry.”

“It’s weird, I . . . I keep hearing things,” he says.

Stiles is looking at him funny. “Like . . . voices?”

“Yeah, yeah – not like that!” he says quickly. He’s surprised by Stiles’ expression, caught off guard by it. It’s clearly the look of someone who thinks you’re crazy, but it isn’t the one he’d have expected on a high school student. It’s a look that’s unutterably, unbearably _sad_. 

Jughead doesn’t know why Stiles has that look, he finds himself talking quickly, speaking more words than he’s probably spoken all year, just to make that heavy hurt look go away. “I don’t mean voices in my head! I mean _other people’s_ voices, but I can hear them from really far away. I don’t know – through walls and shit. I was just in East Hall and I heard Archie and Miss Grundy talking in the music room, with the door closed. I heard it as clearly as if I was standing right next to them.”

Stiles' expression shifts slowly from worry, into one of confusion. “Uh . . . what?” 

“And it’s the same with _smells_. I can smell everything. It’s . . . Archie and Miss Grundy? I _smelt_ them before I heard them.”

Stiles wrinkles his nose at that. “Ugh. Okay, first of all you sound just a _little_ bit obsessive about Archie and Miss Grundy. I mean, _smelling_ them? Dude that’s just . . .”

“Weird, yes, I’m weird, I got that,” snaps Jughead, as the teacher passes out their assignments.

“Sorry! Jeez, didn’t mean to strike a nerve,” Stiles whispers. “It’s just – so, what you’re saying is, ever since that wolf-thing in the woods bit you . . . ha, oh,” he smirks, then starts chuckling.

Jughead glances over at him, frowning, the paper with their work crinkling a bit at the edges where he’s holding it too tightly. He grits his teeth. “ _What?_ ”

“Just . . . I _get_ it,” Stiles laughs, ignoring the dirty look the teacher is shooting them. He laughs so hard he has to wipe his eyes. “Good one! Good one, Jughead!”

Jughead’s frown deepens. He looks from the assignment, back to Stiles, irritation mounting. _Get what?_

“You got bit, and now you have heightened senses, a lust for blood and an unmistakable urge to howl at the moon. All signs point to . . .”

Jughead reaches across and shoves him. Stiles rocks back on his stool, still laughing.

“You’re a _werewolf_ , dude! _Arooooo_!”

Jughead's face flushes. He clenches his fists, almost ready to bolt like Betty. _Of all the stupid -_  

“Stilinski!” the teacher snaps. “Jones! Principal’s office! Both of you! Now!”

Jughead flips his book shut again, giving Stiles a withering look. The other boy tries to apologize. He slides off the stool. _Figures._ Stiles was the one being an asshole. He pointedly doesn’t look at him as they skulk past the scowling teacher.

Then they’re both out in the hallway again.

“Jeez, I’m sorry,” says Stiles. “I’ll tell Mr. Weatherbee it was all me. I mean, but you _did_ set me up, man. And they say you have no sense of humor –”

Jughead finally looks at him. He’d wonder _who_ says that, who Stiles has been talking to about him (weird,) but Stiles keeps going:

“Come on, you know, all that stuff about hearing and smelling everything! You were so serious too! Total deadpan. You almost got me. Jeez –” Stiles laughs again. “Did you ever think about being an actor?”

Jughead just shakes his head. So Stiles _really_ thought he was only joking? Of course, he realizes, because Stiles is a _normal_ person and this kind of thing doesn’t happen in real life. What was he even _thinking_ , trying to explain it to someone? He’s lucky Stiles wrote it off as a joke and that’s all. He could end up in Eichen House for saying stuff like that. He could end up like Betty’s poor sister. 

It’s a good thing Stiles laughed, even if it means they’re both getting detention.

_Still._ For some reason, it leaves Jughead feeling very lonely.

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

Across town, Alice Cooper stands in the chill of the county morgue. The cold doesn’t bother her. She bribed the pathologist conducting the autopsy to let her in and now she stands, looming over the pieces of Jason Blossom’s corpse, arranged on shiny metal trays. She sees the serrated flesh, the jagged bits of bone protruding where he was torn apart.

The doctor thinks she’s there in her capacity as a journalist, that this is Riverdale’s top story, the autopsy of the town’s wealthiest little bastard. But Alice Cooper is a woman who wears many hats. Sure, she’ll write up the story - she’s already composing opening lines in her head as her eyes flick over the corpse’s grey, tortured face. But that’s hardly priority number one now, is it?

Her mouth curls, but she’s too professional to actually wrinkle her nose at the sight of the dead Blossom kid, though she _wants_ to.

_Filthy fucking creatures._

She’s glad he’s dead, only wishes she’d had the pleasure of ending his miserable life herself. She hopes it hurt, thinks it did, by the anguish frozen on the body’s face, by the shreds of dangling skin, now discolored as rot begins to set in.

_They kill their own._

It confirms what she’s always said, that there’s not one single trace of honor or humanity left in them. What kind of animals slaughter their own? Jason Blossom was hunted down like an animal and slaughtered. 

“So, as you can see, it looks at first glance like a wild animal attack,” the doctor is saying and Alice forces herself to pay attention. She has to learn what the general public will know, what the police will know. What she can write about in her article, because obviously she’s not going to tell the truth in it – not the whole truth, anyway.

“Surely there aren’t any animals in Riverdale capable of doing this,” she says, because it's what she's supposed to say.

He nods, stroking his chin. “Wait, it gets even more . . . intriguing.” His eyes never leave the body on the table in front of him. “See this?” he gestures to faint purple-black bruising on the wrists and neck. “He was restrained here, and here are signs of strangulation. Partial strangulation, I should say. He didn’t die from lack of oxygen.” He points out other marks – wounds, incisions.

“You’re saying he was held somewhere?” Alice asks, frowning. This wasn’t part of the script. “Tortured?”

“The massive damage,” the doctor gestures to the bisected torso, “was done by an animal. They are bite marks, when you examine the tissue. But we can’t write this off as a wild animal attack. Not with . . .”

“The signs of torture?”

He nods, humming quietly to himself.

Alice stands there, staring in disgust at Jason Blossom. He _would_ make this difficult for her, even in death. It's easier for everyone if the norms just think it's a wild animal attack. Now the police will be involved. That complicates matters.

_It also means there's more than the Blossoms at play._

The Blossoms have been laying low for decades, using their vast resources to cover themselves. Hadn’t put one  _paw_ out of line and she couldn’t get clearance to take them down if she couldn't prove they were killing people – a _bullshit_ rule, since everyone _knew_ wolves were killers, couldn’t help themselves. Couldn't save themselves from the madness, the bloodlust.

_They are nothing but rage and hunger. Just look at Jason Blossom._  

She turns away from the medical examiner. “Thank you, I’ve seen enough.”

Walking back to her car, Alice pulls out her phone, scrolling through her list of contacts until she finds ARGENT. She hits the call button.

_Now things start._

Now she can cast aside this mundane life – the life she’s always thought of as her alter-ego, her disguise – that of a journalist, newspaper editor. It’s just something to do when she’s not hunting, and after her expose on the Blossom boy’s death (front page material, she can’t _not_ print it!) she’ll glad to be done. Let Hal worry about the press.

It’s been a long time since Alice felt like _herself_. _Who are you really, Alice?_ A girl on bike, riding with the Southside Serpents. _Yes._ A girl with an axe, taking down werewolves. _Yes._ A girl saving the God-damn world. _Hell, yes._

That was a lifetime ago, but she doesn’t care. She’s ready to get back in the game.

More than ready.

The phone’s still ringing. Finally, it’s answered. 

“Hello?” a voice says on the end. A familiar voice. An old friend. Alice feels herself beginning to smile.

“ _Chris_ ,” she says, without preamble, “we’re going to need you in Riverdale.”

She glances up at the sky, the steel-blue hanging over this little town that likes to _pretend_ it's oh-so wholesome. She pictures _Thornhill_ , the sprawling ugly monstrosity of it. She thinks of the _Blossoms_ , they’re more than just Penelope and Cliff and their spoiled, vile offspring. There are _cousins_ , a veritable army of poisonous redheads that make up the board of directors for the Blossom empire and, she knows, are all part of a pack.

The biggest and most powerful werewolf pack in the state.

“Bring the guns,” she says. 

Silence on the line for a few seconds. Then she hears: “always.” 

Alice smiles even as Chris Argent hangs up. He won’t come just on _her_ say-so, but once she sends them the autopsy’s findings the Argents won’t be able to stay away, not from a hunt this big. The Blossoms, and whatever’s hunting the Blossoms.

Maybe she should just wait until whoever it is torture-kills the rest of the family, but she wants a piece of the action. And if it’s a supernatural threat, well she’ll hunt that, too.

She’s heard rumors the _Hale_ family- what’s left of it - is in town again. Maybe it’s just a coincidence, but she seems to remember the Hales and the Blossoms being tied up in something together before, once upon a time. Maybe Jason Blossom’s death is fallout from that. Alice doesn’t mind, she’ll find out. Like all journalists she loves a good mystery. So she’ll solve the case.

And then she’ll kill them all.

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

R U RLY NOT GOING 2 TALK 2 ME FOR ALL OF DETENTION??? :( :( :( :( :(

 

Jughead glances down at his vibrating phone, watches the message appear and rolls his eyes. They are sitting in detention, a few desks apart because he deliberately did not want to sit next to Stiles.

Betty isn’t there, or he would have sat next to her. Instead it’s just him, three empty desks between them, Stiles, and the teacher. 

Stiles keeps trying to catch his eye across the classroom, and Jughead ignores him. He wants to put his head down on the desk and go to sleep. But he figures if he doesn’t text back at least once Stiles is just going to keep bothering him. He picks up the phone, frowning.

 

Jughead: srsly r u trying to get us in trouble again??

Stiles: It’s a gift. What can I say? I’m one talented guy

Jughead: that’s not normally something ppl are proud of

Stiles: so? Who says I’m normal??

 

Jughead glances down at his phone in surprise. Stiles seems pretty normal to him. He debates responding again. He really doesn’t want to get any more detentions. But glancing up at the teacher, he can see the man is intent on grading papers and ignoring them. Probably he didn’t want to get stuck here after school, either. 

 

Stiles: oc I’m not the one who is a werewolf 

 

Jughead glares at him across the room, flipping him off in person as the teacher’s still not looking.

Stiles ducks his head.

 

Stiles: SORRY!

Stiles: BUT IT WAS UR JOKE, JEEZ.

 

Jughead sighs. He guesses it _was_ his joke, from Stiles’ perspective. 

His phone buzzes, lights up again.

 

Stiles: So. What kind of music are you into?

Stiles: What about games?

Stiles: I’m part of an online gaming community that hunts mythical creatures.

Stiles: ??

Stiles: Dude, I’m gonna keep texting until you text me back.

Stiles: I know UR getting these

Stiles: I can srsly see you looking at your phone

 

Jughead huffs, resists the urge to send back an eye-rolling emoji. He’s not an emoji kind of guy. He opens his math textbook instead and pretends to find it _very_ interesting. Stiles is apparently not fooled since the messages keep coming. 

 

Stiles: I know u like movies cuz u work at the drive-in

Stiles: if u don’t tell me what movies u like I’m gonna have 2 guess

Stiles: OK

Stiles: American Werewolf in London

 

Jughead stares, frowning. Well, he _does_ like that movie, but he wishes Stiles would let the stupid werewolf thing go.

No luck, as Stiles’ next several messages are all werewolf movies.

 

Stiles: Curse of the Werewolf

Stiles: Ginger Snaps

Stiles: The Howling

Stiles: Bad Moon

 

There’s a pause and Jughead thinks _good,_ maybe he’s finally stopped. _Good . . ._ he doesn’t actually feel good about it, though. He kind of liked Stiles texting him.

Jughead looks at a math problem. Yeah, this is definitely less fun. He wants his phone to buzz again.

It does.

 

Stiles: The Wolfman

 

_Huh._ Before he can think better of it, he finds himself typing back:

 

Jughead: the original or the remake?

Stiles: original, duh. With Lon Chaney Jr. obvi.

Stiles: bc you are a man of taste, Jughead Jones III

Stiles: I can tell

 

Jughead glances at Stiles. He shouldn’t be impressed, shouldn’t let himself be. He feels himself starting to smile and ducks his head quickly to hide it.

But crap, he thinks Stiles saw anyway.

 

Stiles: so I dunno but I kinda want to marathon a ton of monster movies after this??

Stiles: what do u say?

Stiles: my place after school? 

Stiles: can be our 2nd date?

 

Jughead stares down at his phone, struck dumb. This is another example – _like Archie and Betty –_ of the world going sideways on him. Maybe he slipped into a parallel reality without noticing? What is Stiles _talking_ about – or is it just his annoying sense of humor once more on display?

Jughead bites his lip. His brain screams at him not to respond – because years of being bullied will do that to you – but. Okay, he’ll bite.

 

Jughead: the hell was our FIRST date?! 

Stiles: the woods!!

 

The response comes so quickly Jughead drops his phone on the desk where it lands with a clack. He actually lets out a huff of disbelieving, shocked laughter and the teacher _finally_ looks up, rustling papers and clearing his throat. Jughead drops his gaze, hides his phone behind his math book and manages to make his face expressionless once again. He pretends to be _really into_ this math problem.

The teacher goes back to grading papers, and Jughead risks a glance three desks over at Stiles.

The other boy is blushing. Yes, definitely blushing. His cheeks are turning a deep, embarrassed shade of red.

Jughead’s eyebrows climb in surprise.

_Is he really . . . serious?_

Jughead’s phone vibrates. He snatches it up off the desk.

 

Stiles: Yes the woods was a date

Stiles: meant to be a date

Stiles: It’s been pointed out to me since that maybe that was not as romantic as I intended

Stiles: Sorry

Stiles: I kind of suck at this???

 

Jughead looks over at him again. Stiles, still blushing furiously, ducks his gaze. An action Jughead finds oddly, surprisingly endearing. Maybe because it’s so sincere.

He swallows. He finds himself staring at the phone and feels like his own face is on fire, too. His first impulse is to ask ‘is this a joke?’ but the way Stiles is blushing he thinks probably not, that asking might even hurt his feelings. After a second, he finds his fingers moving almost on their own.

 

Jughead: r u kidding? Looking for dead bodies is so hot

Jughead: every1 knows that

Jughead: I always dreamed someone would propose to me at a body farm

Stiles: Right??

Jughead: doesn’t everybody?

 

Jughead looks up to see Stiles’ shoulders shaking with the effort not to laugh.

 

Stiles: god we’re so messed up 

Jughead: speak for yourself

Stiles: srsly tho maybe just a bit 

Jughead: fuck u

Jughead: my sardonic sense of humor is just my way of relating to the world

Stiles: wow

Stiles: that is

Stiles: not gonna lie

Stiles: the way you use words like that is pretty hot

 

Now Jughead is sure he’s blushing. His face feels warm and tingly. He can’t remember the last time anyone ever said anything like that to him. Not even Jason. But he can’t shake the worry that this is all some elaborate prank, or best case scenario, _what - ?_ He ends up another closeted jock’s dirty little secret? No, thanks. Not again.

A wave of panic rises in his chest. He stares at the phone, not knowing how to respond. Feeling like he’s floundering in uncharted waters.

He can’t do this again.

Thankfully, it’s four o’clock and detention ends. The teacher stands up and Jughead bolts for the door. He doesn’t look at Stiles again, doesn’t want to see if he’s confused/angry/hurt/whatever.

Unfortunately, Jughead’s not looking where he is going.

And that’s when he runs straight into Reggie.


	5. we are but older children, dear, who fret to find our bedtime near

            Stiles leaps up, hoping to intercept Jughead and Reggie, but he’s already too late. The smaller Jughead collides with the jock and Reggie’s hands come down to shove him out of the way. “Watch it, Wednesday Addams!”

            Reggie has his posse of football playing a-holes flooding the hall behind him. Practice must have just let out, and they’re pumped, ready for a fight, snickering already. Stiles feels his stomach drop – immediately flashing back to the scene in the student lounge earlier.

            Jughead’s eyes widen, but he can’t get out of the way before Reggie’s hands slam into him. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even flinch. Stiles’ jaw drops and he’s running towards them, when he notices Jackson Whittemore is also lurking in the hall, getting something from his locker. Stiles’ skids to a stop beside the captain of the lacrosse team. He doesn’t really _like_ Jackson, but desperate times and all. “You have to stop them!”

            Jackson gives him a dirty look, slamming his locker shut. “The hell do you expect me to do about it, Stiles? Try telling your boyfriend not to pick fights with the football team.”

            “For _fuck’s sake_ , Jackson-”

            Reggie’s face twists into a confused snarl when he realizes Jughead isn’t moving, like he should. Jughead seems just as surprised by the fact that he’s still standing there. Reggie raises a fist. “I said get outta my fucking way, you emo piece of shit!”

            Reggie raises a fist, aiming for Jughead’s face but he’s no longer there. Jughead moves faster than Stiles has ever seen _anyone_ move – faster than he knew it was _possible_ to move – slipping around the jock so fast Reggie’s hand connects with the lockers behind him with a bang. Someone laughs – a surprised huff since no one here is quite brave enough to actually let out a _guffaw_ at Mantle’s expense. Beside him, Jackson pauses, leaning against his locker to watch the show.

            Stiles shakes his head in disgust, he couldn’t just stand around and watch someone get beat – especially not Jughead. He leaves Jackson where he is and makes a dash for Reggie’s hulking henchmen-like friends. They’re boxing Jughead in, crowding him in a cage of their bodies, knuckles cracking, shitty smirks in place.

            Stiles wonders where all the teachers are. He wonders how bad they’re going to get their asses kicked. Reggie’s shaking out his bruised hand, face flushed with humiliation and rage. Dangerous combo. _This is bad_ , Stiles thinks, his own heart rattling around like crazy.

            The locker Reggie punched breaks open, the door badly dented. When he shakes out his hand, Stiles sees his knuckles are bloody. “Hey! You coulda broken my hand!” Reggie screams, apparently forgetting _who_ tried to punch _who_.

            “What kind of freak _are_ you?” Chuck Clayton asks.

            “Gonna teach this runt some manners,” says someone else, Stiles doesn’t know. Doesn’t really want to know.

            Stiles doesn’t even know how to get their attention. “Hey, guys back off –” he tries, but it sounds lame to his own ears. They ignore him, no surprise.

            “We’re going to fucking _destroy_ you-” says Reggie, balling his bloody hand into a new fist.

            All the jocks move forwards as one, and Stiles does the only thing he can think to do - grabs the closest guy, yanking him back as Jughead weaves between them. Reggie makes a lunge for Jughead, only to miss _again_ as the boy ducks under his arm. Jughead spins around Chuck, too fast to be caught, but is blocked by the hulking figure of Moose.

            “Now, just wait a sec, Jug-” Moose drawls, like they were just having a heart-to-heart this whole time.

            Jughead stands, staring up at the boy who’s more living-mountain than high school student, and Stiles sees the tension finally, in the line of his jaw. His shoulder is shaking slightly – a low sound rising from his throat like a growl.

            For the first time Moose looks uncertain, holds his meaty hands up in a placating, rather than threatening, gesture. “N-now Juggie, we’re friends, aren’t we?”

            “Damn it, Moose, _grab_ him!” Reggie yells, and Stiles realizes they’ve all been standing there stunned like idiots. Chuck starts forward like he’s going to shove Jughead into Moose, but Jughead runs and jumps at an impossible angle. He launches himself off the ground in a move that shouldn’t – _couldn’t_ – be physically possible, leaping clean _over_ all seven feet of Moose. He manages to turn a flip in the air, rolling to the ground to land on his feet, leaping up from a crouch and bolting while Stiles and the others stare in extreme _what the fuck_ mode –

            Jackson, still leaning against the lockers, cool as anything, arches one eyebrow, watching Jughead clear out down the hall while Reggie and the others shout and swear and are about to give chase, when a teacher _finally_ shows up. She turns the corner, eyes flickering over them nervously and a small smile – _the music teacher,_ Stiles thinks, _Grundy_. He doesn’t really know her – music’s not his thing. But she stops to say hello to Reggie and Chuck and they’re forced to talk to her, hopefully giving Jughead time to get far, _far_ away.

            Stiles lets out a breath, backing away, praying he can ditch too before they remember he’s there and take out their frustrations on him. He makes it to the corner and Jackson falls into step with him. Stiles tries not to act too surprised as they walk.

            Jackson, slinging his backpack over one shoulder, side-eyes him. “So,” he says. “He didn’t need our help anyway.”

            “I guess,” Stiles mutters, his heart still rattling. He can’t quite believe what he just saw. Since when could Jughead _move_ like that? Since when could _anyone_? He feels dizzy and vaguely sick. All those stupid werewolf jokes don’t sound so funny anymore.

            Jackson seems to have noticed the near-superhuman dodging and jumping as well, but arrives at much different conclusion. “Your boy play lacrosse?”

            Stiles boggles at him. “Wh- _what_?” he asks, shaking his head, sure he heard wrong.

            “I know he doesn’t get along with the douchebags on the football team, but who does, right? That doesn’t mean he hates all sports or something, does it?”

            Stiles isn’t sure, his brain still trying to process what he just saw. And sure, they’re getting along better now, but he can’t act like he _knows_ Jughead one hundred percent. He doesn’t think sports are really Jughead’s scene, but he doesn’t want to answer for him. What if he tells Jackson to shove it and then finds out Jughead’s always secretly wanted to be part of a team or some shit like that? He settles for shrugging and making a vague noise.

            Jackson says: “tell him he should try out for lacrosse.”

            “Seriously?”

            “What? The kid’s _fast,_ ” Jackson smirks. “Maybe he can give _you_ some tips.”          

 

* * * * *

 

            Jughead collapses on the floor of the drive-in booth, slamming the plywood door shut behind him so hard it cracks, almost popping off its rusty hinges. He wishes it had a lock. He wishes a lot of things right now.

            Thankfully the Serpents aren’t around, though he tripped on a bunch of their discarded beer cans on his way across the drive-in lot. Beer cans and cigarette butts, the occasional broken needle. Fuck, no wonder no one comes to the drive-in anymore. Who wants to risk a biker thinking you looked at him the wrong way and deciding to rearrange your face? He knows the Serpents are mostly all talk and swagger and dime bags of weed, but their leather jackets and snake tattoos freaked out most of Riverdale. They don’t _fit_. Like him.

            Okay, he’s only thinking about the _Serpents_ so he doesn’t have to think about what _the fuck_ just happened at school. He thought for sure Reggie and his cronies were going to beat the crap out of him. He's more or less used to it and hadn’t been expecting the surge of anger – _anger, fuck, no, this was_ rage _– an emotion Jughead isn’t_ that _accustomed to._ It swept over him, blood burning and heart pounding until he really felt like he might rip Reggie’s face right off his skull. Even with half the football team closing in, trying to cage him – the memory causes a shiver up the back of his neck, his body remembering other times, times he _didn't_  get away. He curls up on the floor of the booth, raking a hand over his face. He’s drenched in sweat.

            The reason Jughead ran wasn’t because he was afraid of Reggie – not _this_ time – he was afraid of _himself_. He was afraid of the _frenzy_ he could feel biting away at the edges of his mind. Black and boiling, like the seething river in the storm in his dreams _._

_You don’t know what’s coming_ , Jason’s voice echoes in his head.

            Jughead rolls over, staring up at the ceiling. The small booth is uncomfortably like a box, a coffin, a crate. His classic movie posters at least give it some color, but the smell of rot and mould seep through regardless. This isn’t a home, he’s not even sure it counts as shelter.

            Even if Jughead isn’t that familiar with _feeling_ rage, he’s certainly seen enough of it. They say kids turn into their parents, don’t they? And his dad . . . especially when he’s had a few . . . hell, that’s the whole reason Jughead isn’t living at home, right? To escape FP’s black directionless fury. Dad’s temper is always a hair’s trigger from exploding and Jughead's usually the one who gets to be the target – especially since his mom and sister took off. Not that he _blames_  them, of course, he's glad someone got away.

            Still. He missed his little sister so much more than he would have guessed. Every time he thinks of his mom, it's remembering how she told him there just wasn’t room for him to come with them. They were just going to be gone for a “few days,” anyway. _Not enough room,_ _Jughead_ \- what a load of shit, right? Like she couldn’t just come out and _flat-out say_ her son was a _fuck up,_ not worth the couch space. But maybe she’d seen _this_ in him before he did. 

            Maybe he is _cursed_ – yeah, _cursed to be a fuck-up like your old man._

            Jughead pulls at his hair, trying to shut up the thoughts swirling around in his head. _His mom, packing Jellybean into the front seat of their rusted, busted up old Ford. Not letting him say goodbye._

“You’re only going to upset her,” rolling her eyes, muttering something Jughead can’t quite catch, but the sentiment rings through loud and clear - enough to _hurt_ like needles scraping against his skin. _His mom slamming the trunk shut –_ the trunk packed full with all of her clothes and Jellybean’s LPs found at the thrift store. _Pink Floyd_  is her favourite – now all Jughead can think about is those lyrics _run rabbit, run/dig that hole, forget the sun_ – repeated on loop inside his head _. Yeah, run._

_He can’t, he’s stuck here, trapped in Riverdale. The town that hates him. The place where his best friend stood him up. The place where Jason died. The place where he was attacked by –_  

            _“We’re only going for a few days, Jughead,”_ yeah, right. He knew they weren’t coming back to a dirty trailer full of empty liquor bottles and his dad _screaming_ at them at two in the morning. Who would? _Run rabbit, run._

            _His mother doesn’t kiss him goodbye. She’s glances at him, her eyes slightly squinted in the sun beating off the roof of the Ford. “Try not to give your father too much trouble,” she says, before sliding into the driver’s seat and pulling out of the trailer park._

            He feels unanchored, like nothing that happened after that moment can quite be real – _life, was it but a dream?_

            “Hey . . . hey, stop it,” a voice says, hovering above him.

            A familiar voice. Jughead can’t breathe as he slowly lowers his hands from his face and opens his eyes.  

            _Jason Blossom_ is there, crouched in the shitty drive-in projector booth. He’s next to Jughead, looking down at him. The afterlife has made the ginger’s already pasty skin even whiter and it shimmers in the dark. Jughead thinks if he closes his eyes, he’d still see him. _That’s it._ _I’m going crazy. That’s the explanation for everything._

            He swallows, his throat raw. “ _Jason_ . . .”

            “Get out of your head for a minute.” It’s the kind of thing he might have said to Jughead when he was alive. The ghost of Jason smirks, those generous pink lips as lush as ever. Jughead shivers, disturbed when he catches himself staring at them. He guesses they’re kissing days are over.

            Jughead sighs, dropping his hands to the floor beneath him and resigns himself to looking up at his dead boyfriend, because freaking out would be rather pointless – _even if he wanted to scream his head off, who would hear? The rats and roaches crawling through the drive-in’s garbage bins outside?_

            “That’s what I always _liked_ about you, Jughead,” Jason says. “You’re _adaptable_.”

            Yeah, _well._ If there’s one thing life has taught him, it’s how to roll with the punches.

            Jason’s eyes on him are that same steely grey-blue they were in life. “I always thought you weren’t a bad one, you know, considering.”

            “Considering what? I’m poor?”

            Jason’s smirk widens. He flashes a too-white smile with too-long teeth. “ _Human_.”

            Jughead’s breath is shaky, but all he says is “oh.”

            _Right._

            “Yeah,” Jason continues to sit there and stare at him for a while. It’s kind of nice to have someone there with him, even if that someone is dead. “Come on, the denial can only go on for so long. Besides, it’s such a tired cliché, isn’t it, Jughead?”

            Jason points to one of the posters fastened above the cot. _The Wolf-Man._ The Lon Chaney version, just like Stiles guessed. Jughead wants to laugh, but the tortured sound that comes out of his throat isn’t quite that.

            Jason’s eyebrows raise in amusement. “In a way you’re the perfect person for this to happen to. All these monster movies – the staples of the classic drive-in, right? I always thought I would tell you one day. In my defense, I thought there would be more days. More time.”

            “. . . yeah,” Jughead sighs, staring above them. 

            “I didn’t want to paint a target on your back too soon, and then it didn’t matter, because I guess there was one there all along – since you started seeing me, anyway.”

            Jughead turns from the mouldy ceiling, back to Jason. “Is this because of _us_?”

            Jason’s hands feel like ice water without the wetness. They pass through Jughead’s face and cold pain shoots through his teeth. “So you hate me?”

            And Jughead _can’t_ – he just _can’t,_ the same way he couldn’t hate him when Jason Blossom was alive. He couldn’t hate him, not even when Jason would laugh at him at school, calling him a freak with the other bone-headed jocks. He would always find him here in the booth, after, long after the movies were over and the rest of the town had gone home.

            He remembers Jason’s hands when they were warm and strong – he was always surprisingly strong for such a slender boy, always looked somewhat surprising in his football uniform. Of course that all makes more sense now. He used to lift Jughead straight off the ground, pin him against the wall while claiming his mouth in bruising, painful kisses.

            His hearts beating faster again and Jughead doesn’t think it’s just from the sight of his dead boyfriend, or the memories he's stirring. “What’s _happening_ to me?”

            Jason looks away. “The full moon,” he says, “not now, but soon. It's coming. Your body feels it.”

            His chest rises and falls. Jughead clenches his fists at his sides, trying to stay calm. “So what do I _do_?”

            Jason – _proving that being dead doesn’t make you a better person_ – only shrugs. His smirk is back in full-force and he ignores Jughead’s gaze, looking at something beyond the walls of the booth, something maybe only the dead can see.

            “They’re just playing with you, you know,” he says finally. “They’re just playing with you, and when they’re bored . . .” he trails off, but he doesn’t really need to continue. Jughead can feel the weight of those unspoken words.

            _They’ll kill you._

            _They’ll kill you, like they killed me._

He wants to ask who ‘t _hey_ ’ are, but his head is heavy now. Black spots eat away at the edges of his vision, and before he passes out completely, the last thing he sees is Jason, looking down at him, red lips pulled back into the most hideous smile Jughead’s ever seen. 

 

* * * * *

 

            Jughead wakes up with the coppery taste of blood thick in his mouth. He gasps and starts choking, rolling over, only to feel his hand fall in a mushy pile of last year’s leaves. A chill works up his spine – and he starts shaking. He’s in the maple woods that border the Sweetwater River. _Again._ The woods where he and Jason used to come to fool around. The woods where he and Stiles found his body. Now, he’s lying on a bed of dead leaves and dirt. The sun glints down like a silver disc through the overcast sky.

            And he has no idea how he got here.

            The early-morning air is chilled with frost and Jughead sits up, moaning when he realizes he’s naked. Naked. In the middle of the woods. With no idea how he got here.

            He scrambles, trying to get up, but slips on the wet leaves and falls down again. The trees flash by, spinning like a looping film frame and the blood-taste against his teeth becomes overpowering. The next second, his stomach’s heaving and he rolls onto his side and pukes – vomiting up blood and bile and chunks of fur.

            He has to struggle to keep from screaming at the sight. Tears drip out of his eyes before he even has time to realize that he’s crying.

            _A crunching in the leaves, twigs snapping –_ he hears it all so sharply with his new senses, just like he catches the whiff of two people close by. Jughead starts, but he doesn’t have quite enough energy to actually _jump_ up. He tries again to stand, frantically wiping blood from his lips and scrubbing at his eyes. He’s leaving smears of blood and dirt across his face.

            His limbs feel like jelly – weak and shaky, like he’s just run a hundred laps around the football field. He has to grab hold of the base of a nearby tree to stay on his feet. Leaves and dirt fall out of his hair. He wonders what happened to his clothes – feels a stab of panic at the loss of his beanie. And another stab of panic when he realizes the two people he heard and smelt are standing right there. Staring at him.

            “Oh . . . god,” he says, trying to cover himself.

            _And it gets worse:_ one of the two is _Cheryl Blossom_ , Jason’s twin, instantly recognizable to anyone from Riverdale High. Her long fire-engine red hair tumbles artfully over one shoulder. Even hiking in the woods at sunrise she’s perfectly made up – shiny ruby lipstick, a tight black sweater and long skirt, split up the middle. She’s wearing black riding boots that give her a few extra inches, and she stares down her nose at him, imperious, but dead calm, like she sees this kind of shit every day.

            Beside her is a man Jughead doesn’t recognize. He’s wearing a leather jacket, but he’s not one of the Serpents. His hair and stubble are dark, his brow furrowed, his mouth set in a serious, disproving line.

            “See? I _told_ you,” Cheryl says to the man, all without taking her cool eyes off Jughead.

            The man only grunts and slowly shakes his head. Jughead can’t help feeling like he’s being appraised and falling short. _What even is this?_ It doesn’t help that he’s naked and dirty, shivering so hard now his teeth are clacking. He tries to cover himself with his hands, but he has no idea what his next move is – run?  _Run where?_ He can barely stay on his feet.

            “Ch – Cheryl,” he says and the greeting sounds absurd in context, but she doesn’t bat an eye.

            “Jughead.”

            “Your classmate?” the man growls.

            “Unfortunately,” she sighs, turning away. She glances over her shoulder, throwing her long red hair in a swish she must have practiced like hell to perfect. “Well, poor boy? Are you coming, or not?”

            Jughead stares at her. At least he _knows_ Cheryl – _sort of -_ but his eyes dart to the stranger by her side warily. He can’t help but think of how Jason was killed in these same woods, _torn apart._

_Shapes coming out of the spitting, frothing river. Dark clouds descending. Red eyes that glow in the dark._

            Cheryl puts a hand on the stranger’s broad shoulder, “don’t worry about _Derek_.” Her smile then, even though he can only see part of it because of the way she’s facing, is so much like her brother’s that Jughead shudders. He gets the feeling he should be _very_ worried about Derek. “He’s my cousin. Derek Hale, from California.”

            “Yeah . . . that doesn’t actually make me feel any better,” he says.

            Cheryl actually laughs a little at that and Jughead is momentarily taken by surprise. When she speaks next he can hear the smirk in her voice: “Come along, _Jones_. Unless you _want_ to spend the day naked out here?”

            He follows at a distance, keeping them both firmly in sight and wincing when his bare feet get cut up on the sharp rocks and twigs and _who knew walking through the woods without shoes would be so grossly unpleasant?_ Then the mosquitoes start in on them and he really hates his life.

            Trailing through the woods, like a dirty naked goblin following Cheryl and her slightly terrifying cousin is the most absurd thing that’s ever happened to him. Yeah, even weirder than finding Jason’s body and getting bitten by what he now has to accept was a freaking _werewolf_.

            Yeah, this is even more unpleasant. Cheryl’s calm ice-queen attitude as she wades through the unruly bracken, ignoring twigs that snap back and scratch her face, is surreal. Jughead gets the distinct feeling that he did something to piss off her cousin, because Derek occasionally glances back at him and shakes his head, scowling. He doesn’t look like he’s more than twenty or so, but he definitely has the cranky old man vibe pouring off him. And the _Southside Serpent_ -look isn’t helping much with Jughead’s growing anxiety.

            Cheryl and her cousin know a path that takes them pretty much to Thornhill’s back door. The manor’s windows are dark, heavy drapes drawn, lights off. “Don’t worry, mommy and daddy-dearest are out, drowning their grief in new car-shopping.”

             Jughead wonders if Cheryl’s even _aware_ of the bitterness in her voice anymore. Derek completely ignores her, pushing one of the heavy oak doors open. 

            “You know they’ll _smell_ him,” Derek says, blocking the door and barring Jughead – still naked, by the way and really not loving this.

            Cheryl looks back, cosmically unimpressed. “ _So_?” she says, hands on her hips. She proceeds to shove Derek out of the way, seeming indifferent to his muscles and his gloomy stare. He huffs and it almost comes out like a growl, but he concedes, backing out of the way.  

            “Come _along_ Jughead,” Cheryl croons, like she’s calling a dog. He wishes he could tell her to fuck off, but he’s kind of out of options here, so he follows, shuffling past Derek awkwardly and looking anywhere but at his stony gaze.

            The mansion has cavernous halls and a freezing cold floor. He knows the popular kids get invited to parties here and can’t imagine anything less appealing. Parties in general are pretty unappealing to Jughead – too many people, too many strangers, too much noise, chaos – but why would anyone want to have a party _here_? The place is draughty as hell – nearly as cold as the outside – and shadows loom up everywhere, everything painted in varying shades of black. The furniture is old and reminds him of museums. He feels like he’s making things dirty just by walking past them.

            Cheryl leads him to a bathroom – it’s bigger than the entire booth he’s living in. There’s a handsome claw-footed tub, and a separate shower.  Shiny clean marble countertops, aquamarine tile floors and thick white towels that make him think of hotel rooms.

            “Wash up,” she tells him through the door as it clicks shut behind him– _it’s more of an order_. But it’s not like he’s going to argue. He can’t remember the last time he had a bath, but opts for the shower instead, not sure he wants to relax in a place like this.

            Dirt and blood pour off him, splattering the tiles beneath his feet and he’s nervous about Cheryl – about her parents, Cliff and Penelope, who always seemed to instill such stress in Jason. _They’ll smell him anyway._

            As the hot water hits his face, pulling sediment and forest-crud from his hair, Jughead thinks: _Jason was a werewolf – Cheryl, her parents, her cousin – are they all -?_ Dread pools thick in his belly. He’s just blundered into something so much bigger than himself.

            _They’ll kill you,_ Jason warned.

            He’s through with thinking it’s impossible, because Jason’s dead, sure, but if werewolves are going to be real, why not ghosts? He wonders if he should tell Cheryl what he’s seen, but he doesn’t know if he can trust her. None of the Blossoms are really trustworthy, even Jason was just using Jughead. Even Jason’s ghost might still be playing some sick game.

            _I was going to tell you one day._

            _No,_ Jughead shakes his head, wiping water from his eyes. He doesn’t quite believe _that._

            And how did Cheryl and Derek know where to find him? Sure, the woods are Blossom property – they tap the trees for their maple syrup – but he doubts Cheryl goes walking there every day. It seemed like they were expecting him, like they knew what had happened to him and were waiting for him. His skin crawls at the thought and he turns the water off, grabbing a towel.

            The thing – _beast_ – he saw in the woods that night with Stiles, if it’s a werewolf, that means it could be _anybody_. And if Cheryl and Derek are monsters, maybe it was one of them. One of them who attacked – _who bit –_ him. That’s why they weren’t surprised to see him, why they knew he’d come back.

            _I’m not safe here,_ Jughead thinks, wrapping the towel around his waist. He’s glad for a little coverage, at least. Water drips from his hair. _What am I going to do?_

            Looking in the cloudy bathroom mirror, at least he’s clean, but skinny and pale and there are dark circles beneath his eyes like he didn’t sleep at all – which he guesses he didn’t. He has to brace himself to open the bathroom door, to face Cheryl and Derek, but the long spooky hall is blessedly empty.

            There are some clothes folded neatly on a chair beside the bathroom and he breathes a sigh of relief. The pants are too long and he has to roll up the bottoms. _Jason was tall._ The shirt feels ridiculously soft. Stupid-soft. And it smells _– all the worse because of his heightened senses_ – like Jason. It smells like _Jason_ in a way Jason’s ghost doesn’t. The ghost has no scent, no weight, nothing but an afterimage, bleeding against the darkness and behind his eyes. But the clothes _feel_ like him and Jughead has to force himself to stop touching the shirt and just put it on. Then it’s there, against his skin, soft and warm and Jason-smelling. He shakes his head.

_This is so bad._

            Cheryl appears at the far end of the hall, and for a second Jughead’s not sure if he should make a run for it at this point, or what, maybe she even wants him to. But she raises a hand, beckoning with one finger. Breakfast smells are wafting out of the door behind her. Twenty minutes ago, when he was puking up blood and bits of raw meat, food was the last thing from his mind, so he’s surprised by how hard the hunger hits now.

            Jughead is _ravenous,_ the force of it almost causing him to double over. His mouth floods with saliva and his eyes even start watering. Suddenly it doesn’t matter if Cheryl and Derek are werewolves, or if this is trap, he just needs to eat _so fucking bad._

            Cheryl smiles her too-red smile, and he never noticed before how some lipsticks look a lot like blood. She leans back against the door and pushes it slightly ajar. The smell of food – pancakes and sausage and ham and _of course_ maple syrup, fresh coffee, melting butter – become overpowering. Jughead can’t even control his feet - he’s walking, floating really, towards her. Her smile widens and she gestures for him to go through.

_How doth the little crocodile –_ He thinks, when he sees that smile, remembering a book he read out loud to Jellybean a long time ago, huddled in the trailer on a rainy night, trying to stay out of their dad’s way.

_How cheerfully he seems to grin / How neatly spreads his claws / And welcomes little fishes in / With gently smiling jaws!_

 

            The food is _so good_ – warm and sticky-sweet with syrup and _filling_ , god! _So_ filling - he can’t remember the last time he ate like this and Jughead was feeling _so_ empty. He starts shoveling food in like a starving person, only too-late realizing this might be seen as _really_ rude, but Cheryl only continues her semi-amused smirk, gestures at the spread, gestures for him to keep going. She’s not touching anything but a tall glass of orange juice, which she sips at. The cousin is nowhere to be seen.

            “It’s hungry work, the transformation.”

            He chokes, swallows painfully and looks at her, really looks.

            She nods once. “Oh yes, we – _Jay-Jay_ and I, our parents – we’re all . . . creatures of the night, I guess you could say,” she smirks, dark eyes sparkling. “Lycanthropes. _En francais? La loup-garou.”_

            Jughead takes a deep drink of scalding-hot coffee before meeting her gaze. “You mean _werewolves_.”

            They’re sitting at her table – long, dark wood, spread out with this food he guesses servants prepared. Glass bottles of maple syrup glow warmly beneath the light of twin crystal chandeliers dangling above them, tear-drop shards catching, reflecting the light. Cheryl taps at her glass with her too-long nails. “You’ll need our help, Jughead.”

            The high-backed wooden chair he’s sitting in is uncomfortable as fuck. He doesn’t understand rich people. He looks at her, mannequin-still, poised and finds he can’t ask. Can’t ask if she was the one who did this. He doesn’t think she was the one to kill her brother. He may not _know_ her, but the whole town knew how close the Blossom twins are. _Were._ Jason only ever talked about her in the most glowing terms, when he wasn’t sharing milkshakes with her at Pop’s.

_“People don’t_ get _my sister, Jughead,” Jason says, lying next to him on the riverbank, playing idly with a few floppy strands of Jughead’s hair._

_Jughead rolls his eyes, because this is not a very romantic conversation. Not that they’re great at romance, per say, but the last thing he wants to talk about during these stolen moments is Jason’s twin. Sometimes Jason can’t even let him pretend._

_“They think she’s this heartless mean girl. This one-dimensional stereotype. That’s not her.”_

_Jughead hums, because Cheryl’s always seemed to live up to her classmate’s opinions of her. She’s not exactly out there volunteering for Meals on Wheels or anything._

_“You know they wouldn’t even come to her birthday? They wouldn’t even come to a little girl’s birthday party! Fuck this town. She’s not some monster.”_

_“Okay,” Jughead sighs, catching Jason’s hand. The river rushes by and it’s getting cold out. The grass is wet, soaking through his denim. “So your sister’s not a monster? So? Are we going to talk about her all day?”_

_Jason leans closer, nipping at Jughead’s lower lip. “I just like to think . . . of the three of us, maybe living somewhere, someday. Away from Riverdale._ Far _away.”_

_Jughead pulls back, raising an eyebrow. “With your sister?” He knows Jason’s full of shit – that he’ll dump him for someone more socially acceptable, that this will never be more than a secret, shameful adolescent fling. But he plays along. Why not?_

_Jason chuckles, then shakes his head. “You’re right. Let’s not talk about this now.” He pulls Jughead close, pulls him beneath him, grinding their hips together. And if it’s weird that he’s talking about his sister while he does this, Jughead doesn’t comment. Can’t. Everyone in Riverdale knows Jason and Cheryl are an inseparable duo._

            Now he wonders if their closeness wasn’t forged from sharing the weight of _this_ – a secret invisible world.

            Cheryl meets his gaze across the table, holds it. Her long fingers curl around the handle of a knife. “You’re one of _us_ , now, Jughead. We’ll take care of you.”

            His fork tings against the plate and he wipes his mouth on the napkin. Cheryl and Jason swirl around in his head and he doesn’t know what to think. Jughead remembers the dream – _dark clouds, shuddering ground, seething, boiling river. Black waters and blood. Things swimming in the oily dark._

He stands up, knocking into the heavy wooden chair. It barely moves back. “I have – I have to go.”

            She sits there, merely watching. Cheryl _– and Jason –_ always knew how to turn their faces into masks, but then that’s just what their faces _are,_ he realizes. _Masks for the thing that lives beneath_.

            “Wolves need a pack, Jughead. You should be _flattered_.”

            “You know I’m not really a ‘pack’ kinda guy.”

             “It’s what _Jay-Jay_ would have wanted.”

            He feels dizzy again, resists the urge to sit back down and instead backs up more. “You know about . . .”

            “Please. You can’t keep secrets from a twin. Or a werewolf. I could _smell_ you on him.” Her lip twitches then. “Your dirty. Poor. Stink.”

            Jughead’s brow raises. This sounds more like the Cheryl he’s been expecting.

            “But I won’t disrespect his memory by treating you too . . . shabbily,” she says.

            “Like I said, I should go.”

            “It’s your choice,” she says and seems to be forcing her hand to release its death-grip on the knife. “But we have a lot of enemies out there, Jughead. And now so do you.”

 

* * * * *

                          

            Jughead is walking back towards downtown Riverdale - quite a hike from Thornhill - when Stiles’ jeep pulls up next to him. “Jesus! _There_ you are! I’ve been calling all night.”

            Jughead blinks at him, glances down at his borrowed clothes. “Sorry, I uh . . . lost my phone.”

            Which, crap. Another thing. He really hopes its back at the drive-in and not under a pile of leaves, down some ravine in the forest.

            “Are you okay?”

            “. . . sure.”

            “You didn’t, like, _change_ last night, did you?” Stiles asks, nervously tapping the wheel. The jeep idles there, on the curb, waiting.

            Jughead stares, too exhausted to really put together what Stiles is saying. He still feels the creepiness of Cheryl and Thornhill clinging to him and his dead boyfriend’s clothes aren’t helping.

            Stiles sighs, slamming his head back into the seat. “You know – _change_? Into, I dunno, _a giant man-eating wolf monster_ or something?!”

            “WHAT?!” Jughead looks up and down the deserted street before leaning over and gripping the passenger-side window, whisper-screaming: “Are you fucking kidding me?! _How do you –_ does the whole fucking town know?!”

            Stiles rubs his buzzed-short hair, reaches over to pop the door open. “Would you just get in here? I’ve been up all night reading everything I could find – books, websites.”

            “On . . . werewolves?” he can barely say it, has to mutter, but he slides into the seat and buckles his seatbelt. He’s so exhausted, but it’s somehow a relief to hear Stiles’ voice talking excitedly beside him.

            “Yeah! I get it, okay? That werewolf joke from yesterday – not so much of a joke, anymore, right? I _get_ it.”

            “How’d you know?” Jughead asks, leaning against the seat, eyes shut. His hair’s probably a mess, he feels so naked without his beanie. Thinks how he’ll have to go back to the woods to look for it. Feels dread coiling in his stomach at the thought.

            “Come on man, I _saw_ you yesterday! – your speed? Reflexes? It was mental. I know you’re not a sports-guy to begin with, and I doubt even an Olympian could have jumped clear over Big Moose like that! So take _that_ and add the thing we saw in the woods – _totally a werewolf_ , _am I right?_ – and it _bit_ you, and _oh my God_ it all makes sense – a terrifying, worldview destroying, _massively awesome_ amount of sense!”

            Jughead cracks an eye open, looking at him. Stiles’s attention is on the road while he’s driving, but there’s no getting around the fact that he looks . . . “– are you _happy_ about this?”

            “Are you _not_?” Stiles asks, glancing at him. “Is this not the most amazingly _incredible_ thing to ever happen to anyone? Like, _ever_?”

            “You realize I’m . . . basically _literally cursed_ , right?”

            “ _Ye-ah_ – and it’s _awesome_!”

            Somehow Jughead can’t help the smile that tugs at the corner of his lips at Stiles’ enthusiasm. At least it’s better than Cheryl’s icy charity or that weird Derek guy’s open contempt.

            “So . . . did you?” Stiles asks. “Change? Last night?”

            Jughead frowns. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I woke up in the woods, but I don’t . . . I can’t remember.”

            “What? Nothing?”

            He shakes his head.

            “Ah, I’m sorry,” Stiles says, wincing, “that does suck.”

            He grimaces, remembering the fur he puked up. “I think I killed a rabbit, or something.”

            “Well you are technically a fiendish hellbeast now.”

            “Not helping.”

            “Sorry, sorry. But killing _Bugs Bunny’s_ gotta be nothing for a werewolf, right? I mean, with the full moon you won’t _just_ change, but your bloodlust will be at its peak.”

            “My _what?”_

            “Look, maybe you should come back to my place for a bit? I can show you all the werewolf stuff I’ve found.”

            Jughead fidgets uncomfortably against the seat. He’s so tired he feels like he could sleep for about a year, but he should probably hear this, and talking to Stiles makes him feel better, makes him feel in a strange way like this is something manageable. Not so bad. Not so terrifying. “Yeah . . . okay, I guess.”

            Stiles smiles at him, a genuine smile. Stiles isn’t scared of him, and he doesn’t _pity_ him, either. He also doesn’t look at him like he’s something to be scraped off the bottom of a shoe. Stiles is . . . surprisingly easy to talk to. It almost reminds him of hanging out with Archie and Betty, when they were friends. Not that Stiles is anything like either of them, because he’s not, but it’s that same quality . . . if he had to put a word to it, he’d call it _warmth_. Stiles, like Betty and Arch, has something in him that’s just _sunnier_ – something that can greet everyday with an actual desire to be alive on this ugly planet - something Jughead feels is missing in himself. But, like Betty and Archie (used to,) he doesn’t make Jughead feel like an outsider for what he lacks.

            Stiles flips on the radio. It’s a local station, playing Josie and the Pussycats. _We get lost, and we get found._

            Stiles starts singing along suddenly and very badly and Jughead can’t help but laugh. The sound surprises him. He hasn’t laughed in a long time. This only gets Stiles singing louder – off key and terrible. _When the sun goes down, we light up this town_

_And we fear nothing_

_And we fear nothing_

_And we fear nothing_

 

* * * * *

 

            Stiles’ house is nice. His dad’s not home, which is good - Jughead’s spent too much time around the Serpents to feel one hundred percent comfortable around law enforcement.

            They go straight up to Stiles’ room, but it’s nice – and yeah, Jughead doesn’t have _a lot_ of basis for comparison here, most everything’s an improvement when you’ve grown up in a trailer. It’s a bigger bedroom than Archie’s (that being really his only point of comparison) and he likes how Stiles has made the space his own – the walls are covered with posters of bands, ads for video games torn out of magazines, and what he assumes are just pictures Stiles thought were cool printed off the internet. There isn’t the stereotypical swimsuit models or anything, he sees a print-out of an interesting photo of an old tree, the Daleks from _Doctor Who_ , stuff from various anime. It’s the sort of thing he’d picture for himself, okay he’d have more classic movie posters up, but besides that he approves. There’s a telescope – he’s tempted to make a _Rear Window_ reference, but refrains – and a thick plaid comforter spread out on the bed.    

            The werewolf stuff is everywhere – Stiles wasn’t kidding. There are library books _(who knew Riverdale Public Library had such an extensive occult and cryptozoology selection?)_ many very old, propped open to pages with woodcuts of sinister looking man-wolf hybrids. Scattered among them are piles of sheets printed off various websites.

            Jughead picks his way between the piles carefully and perches on the end of the bed. He looks at Stiles, expecting him to say something, you know, about werewolves. Instead the first thing the other boy blurts out is: “you’re not wearing your hat!”

            Jughead raises a hand self-consciously to his longish, wavy hair, feeling like it’s probably doing that annoying fluffy thing it does. Stiles blushes, looking down at his feet – or the notes – so now they’re both blushing.

            “Sorry. I like your hat. I mean, you look fine without it. _Great,_ you look _great_ without it, god – sorry I’m kind of bad at this –”

            “No, you’re –” Jughead swallows, licks his lips, voice cracking. “No, you’re not. I just . . . I kind of lost it.”

            “Shit. That sucks.”

            “Yeah . . . well, remember I told you I woke up in the woods? I was kind of . . . not wearing anything.”

            Stiles turns even redder. “No . . . clothes?”

            Jughead, also blushing harder, starts telling him about Derek and Cheryl, mostly so he can change the subject – Stiles is starting to look at him like he’s trying to picture this morning. Jughead gets to the bit about the Blossoms being one big werewolf family, and Stiles comes back to reality.

            He sits next to Jughead on the edge of the bed, their knees knocking together – “wow. That’s crazy. The Blossom family basically started this town.” A pause, while Jughead nods. Stiles sighs. “Do you think Jason - ? His death is – is it _because_ he was a werewolf?”

            Jughead shrugs, helpless and tired. He wants to curl up on Stiles’ large bed with his big plaid blanket and go to sleep. “She said we have enemies. Dunno if she meant the Blossoms, or people Jason cared about, or werewolves in general, but yeah –”

            Stiles is looking at him funny. Jughead frowns, brow creasing. He has to blink several times and shake his head just to keep his eyes open. “Okay, what?”

            “People Jason cared about?”

            “. . . huh?”

            Stiles looks away, swallows, then looks back. “You said, you didn’t know if Cheryl told you there was danger to the Blossoms, or just people Jason cared about. Does that mean – you and him?”  he swallows again. “Look, I guess it’s none of my business.”

            _Oh. Oh. Crap._ Jughead feels dismay, looking at Stiles’ face.

            “Just . . . ” Stiles shifts, obviously uncomfortable. “I thought you didn’t like him. He was . . . ”

            “I know. I know what he was like. I’m sorry. Look, I don’t want to talk about this –” _can’t talk about this, what if talking summons him, he’s still here, clinging to this world with moth skin and steel-sky eyes_ – “Stiles –”

            “No, of course not, you don’t have to,” Stiles is talking too quickly. He stands, pacing the room, the circles area rug, so many spots, making Jughead’s brain spin while he tries to follow.

            His closes his eyes and Stiles is talking much too fast now. “You don’t have to tell me about – but – but man, I just, just dragged you out there the other night, didn’t I? I made it sound like a joke! I made you see – see him, like that, what he – ”

            Jughead can’t fight the heaviness dragging him down, down, down and he can’t stand to hear the sharp note of panicky-pain leaping into Stiles’ voice, or his words, swirling all around the room like a cyclone of black butterflies.

            “ _Stiles_ –” his hands are balling in the thick fluffy comforter beneath him, and he hates showing weakness – hates relying on others because, like his parents, like Archie, because they’ll just screw you in the end – but it’s gotten to the point where he _can’t_ fight this anymore. “Can I – can I crash here for a bit?” he mumbles something about not sleeping last night, but he can barely hear himself and he can’t hear Stiles’ reply at all. The room is rapidly slipping away.

            He doesn’t feel Stiles’ hands on his shoulders cautious-gentle, guiding him down to the pillow, pulling the comforter around him. He just knows he’s warm and the mattress is soft and for the first time in a long, long time he feels safe.

 

* * * * *

 

            Stiles stares down at Jughead, worry knotting in his stomach. He basically passed out while sitting there, in the middle of a conversation. Plus, he felt so thin when Stiles helped him lie down.

            Jughead’s long black eyelashes brush against his cheek and Stiles catches himself staring and backs away, trying not to be creepy. He drags his gaze to something else and finally throws himself at his desk, turns on his laptop.

            _Jughead . . ._ Stiles shakes his head, he feels just sick about Jason, and the haunted look in Jughead’s eyes. But what else is going on with him?

            Also? Tonight’s the full moon so . . . _not good_. Stiles has a plan . . . not much of one, but he’s swiped a pair of his dad’s handcuffs and he has to stop Jughead from hurting anyone, or himself - who knows what’s really going to go down once the moon rises tonight?

            He wanted to talk to Jughead about it, but he can’t bring himself to wake the kid. Across the room, Jughead makes soft sounds in his sleep and burrows deeper in Stiles’ blankets, pulling them around and over his head.

            Stiles kills some time getting lost reading random Wikipedia entries and playing _World of Warcraft_. But eventually, he realizes he’s pretty tired, too. He wasn’t lying when he said he stayed up researching werewolves like crazy, and there’s something about sharing space with someone sleeping that makes him feel his tiredness even more.

            Eventually, Stiles closes his laptop and swivels his chair around, looking at his bed. Jughead is curled up under the blankets and Stiles lies down on top of the covers on the other side. With the blinds drawn, the room is comfortably dim and Stiles closes his eyes and falls asleep.

            He wakes up a few hours later – it’s late-afternoon – and stretches, only to have Jughead sit up beside him, throwing the covers off. Jughead looks momentarily stunned, surprised, glancing around the room. “S-Stiles,” he raises a hand to his hair – that’s sticking up in a _fucking adorable_ mess.

            Jughead smiles, blushes, and rubs at his eyes. “Uh . . . what time is it?”

            “Around four, I think,” says Stiles.

            “Oh. I’m sorry.” Jughead gives him a nervous, shy smile. “Thanks for letting me sleep here.”

            “Hey, no problem. Any time,” he bites his lip. Damn it. _Jughead is right here, right next to him and looking wonderful with his bed-head, more relaxed than Stiles has seen him in a long time._

Stiles glances at Jughead again, palms getting sweaty suddenly, and he can’t speak, can’t even move. His tongue feels like it weighs a million pounds and he finds himself turning closer to Jughead. He slowly meets his eyes and smiles again. That rare, beautiful smile.

            Stiles knows he might be fucking up majorly here, but he can’t help it. He leans forwards, closing the space between them and presses their lips together in a quick, tentative kiss.

            Jughead freezes for a second and Stiles pulls away, only to have Jughead follow him, mashing their mouths together in a clumsy, hungry kiss. Their noses bounce off each other and he grunts.

            Jughead pushes the blanket away, kicking it down the bed, and slides closer. Stiles wraps an arm around his waist and keeps kissing, as Jughead crawls onto his lap, hands in Stiles’ hoody, pulling them closer. They’re grinding together, delicious friction and his jeans are getting way too tight. His hands find their way to Jughead’s hair and he manages to pull away long enough to gasp.

            “This isn’t . . . moving too fast?”

            Jughead’s face is flushed, his lips red. In answer, he leans forward and kisses Stiles again. And again. _And again._

            They only stop because Stiles remembers the whole full moon thing.

            When he brings it up, Jughead frowns, seems to fall back into himself, slides off him and wraps his arms around himself. “Shit . . . well, yeah and my . . . bloodlust.”

            “Yeah,” Stiles nods.

            “What are we going to do?”

            “Well . . . I have _these_ ,” Stiles says, pulling a pair of handcuffs out of his bedside table. The silver metal circles dangle there between them for a second and Jughead just _looks_ at him.

            Stiles clears his throat.

            Jughead raises an eyebrow.

            “I just thought . . . you know, to keep you from . . . killing people?”

            Jughead sighs, rubbing his face. “Yeah, no, you’re right. Not killing people is a definite plus.”

            “And not running into whatever killed . . .” Stiles trails off, playing with the handcuffs to avoid looking at Jughead. He’s surprised when Jughead puts a hand over his.

            “Hey, don’t worry about it . . . I didn’t tell you,” his eyes drop away from Stiles and he has to whisper the next words: “it was complicated. Me and Jason. It was a mess.”

            Stiles drops the cuffs on the bed so he can hold Jughead’s hand. “Can I ask? About you and him?”

            Jughead shrugs and he looks so depressed, Stiles wishes he had just kept his stupid trap shut. Jughead’s hair falls in front of his eyes, hiding them, and for a moment it looks like he’s trying not to cry. Yeah, Stiles really wishes he hadn’t asked. He’s about to tell the other boy to just forget it, when Jughead starts speaking:

            “. . . we weren’t. I mean we _were_. _Together._ But not officially. I think he wanted to experiment. He felt stifled, being a Blossom, you know. His parents were really strict. I guess, because . . .”

            “The werewolf thing?”

            Jughead shrugs again. “I guess. But at the time, he just explained it like they were really super controlling, and nothing he or Cheryl ever did was good enough for them. He couldn’t let anyone find out about us, so we met up in secret and . . . uh, you know.”

            Stiles looks at their hands, together, on the bed. “I’m sorry.”

            Jughead shakes his head and looks up, taking a shaky breath. He picks the cuffs off the bed, holding them between them. “So . . . do we try these, or what?”

            Stiles snaps the cuffs – one side on Jughead, one on the headboard of his bed. Jughead gives it an experimental tug and the metal clangs. “Are you sure this will hold?”

            “You mean when you wolf-hulk out tonight?”

            Jughead snorts. “Yeah. Then.”

            Stiles shrugs. “Uh . . . I hope so? But if it doesn’t, try not to kill me, ‘kay?”

            Jughead looks like he’s about to say something more about this, when Stiles hears the unmistakable sound of footsteps on the stairs, then in the hallway. Immediately the blood drains from his face. “Shit! Fuck!”

            “Your dad?” Jughead mouths, as the sheriff’s voice floats through the closed door.

            “Stiles, you in there?” he wraps on the door quickly. “How do you feel about take out for dinner? I was thinking Pop’s -”

            The door falls open and they’re frozen in the most awkward tableaux. Stiles sitting on the bed with Jughead. Jughead very clearly handcuffed to the bed. At least they still have their clothes on, but Jughead’s hair is supremely messed-up hand both their clothes are rumpled.

            Sheriff Stilinski stands in the doorway for way too long, staring. Stiles feels his face grow hotter and hotter. “Uh . . . so, Dad, you remember Jughead?”

            Poor Jughead looks like he’s wishing the bed would swallow him _ala_ the first _Nightmare on Elm Street_ movie. Of course he can’t move cause he’s the one who’s wrist is chained to the bed.

            “. . . boys . . .” says Stiles’ dad, coughing. He turns around. Then turns back, eyes narrowing. “Are those my handcuffs?”

            "So . . . I can explain," says Stiles.

            "Please don't," says his dad at the same time as Jughead says, "oh God, please kill me."

            They get the cuffs unlocked - amidst much awkwardness where no one looks directly at anyone else. "Stiles, can I talk to you?" his dad says, in a tone that says it really is not a question.

            Stiles leaves Jughead sitting miserably in his room, and follows his dad out into the hall. 

            It's only a couple hours until dark.

 


	6. it looked good-natured ... still, it had very long claws and a great many teeth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys - I'm really sorry it's taken so long for an update! I meant to have this done last weekend.
> 
> **Trigger Warnings** for this chapter - kidnapping and torture/beating of a character who has a magical healing factor. I don't think it's anything much worse than what you might see on an episode of _TW_ , but I don't want to accidentally trigger anyone, either.

  

 

           “So, I will spare you the gory details of that extremely awkward father-son conversation . . .” Stiles says, sliding back into the bedroom, looking thoroughly mortified.

            And yeah, thinks Jughead, that _couldn’t_ have been a fun talk.

            Sheriff Stilinski had just come home to find Jughead and Stiles in bed together, both dishevelled, Jughead handcuffed to the headboard. _Awkward_ didn’t even begin to cover it.

            “The bad news is he took the cuffs.”

            Jughead just nods, he guessed as much. “You did tell him they weren’t for –”

            “Well, what was I _supposed_ to tell him? They’re for when you turn into a raging hell beast when the full moon rises tonight?”

            Jughead shrugs, he guesses not. But _still._

            “Uh, there’s good news,” says Stiles, and Jughead looks up, worried because he doesn’t entirely trust Stiles’ definition of ‘good news.’ “My dad, he, uh, wants you to stay for dinner?” he says, voice rising at the end to make it a question, like he knows this is uncomfortable.

            Jughead feels his face turning red. “That’s _good_ news?” he asks, trying to keep (most) of the alarm out of his voice. Nothing against the sheriff, but Jughead doesn’t exactly want to get grilled by his new boyfriend’s dad, who also happens to be the local law enforcement. Sheriff Stilinski _has_ to know who Jughead’s dad is -  even if he doesn’t realize he’s a member of the _Southside Serpents_ ; Jughead’s old man has been in county lock-up for drunk and disorderly a few times in the past year.

            Bitter sour shame crawls up Jughead’s throat at the thought of these inevitable conversations. _Conversation_. _Singular._ Jughead’s heart drops at the thought, but he’s a realist. He doesn’t really think Sheriff Stilinski is going to want his son dating a kid from the wrong side of the tracks, the son of a _Serpent_. Oh, and a potentially-murderous _werewolf,_ on top of it. Shit, he has a lot of problems.

            “Oh come on,” says Stiles, “I just had to have ‘the talk’ and then listen to my dad try to tell me we were too young for BDSM – while he tried to avoid using the term _BDSM_ – even though that's clearly what he was thinking. And, ohhh god, I guess this counts as _coming out_ , too? Right? I mean, _obviously_. But we didn’t even really talk about _that_ -”

            “Stiles –”

            “ _Yet_. I’m sure that’s a ‘ _yet_ ’ there. God, that’s going to be a whole other –” he’s blushing, and rubs at his face, before turning back to Jughead. “So really, the _least_ you could do is stay for dinner and humor my dad a little –”

            “But -”

            “-look, all I’m asking is for you to engage in some small talk - the weather's shitty, seen any good movies lately? - That kind of -”

            “ _Stiles_!” Jughead finally snaps, jumping off the bed, “it’s the _full moon_ tonight and I’m going to turn into a fucking monster!”

            Stiles’ hands drop to his sides. His mouth falls open. “Uh . . . _right._ Oh, shit.”

            Jughead sighs, falling back down, shoulders slumped. He gives Stiles an incredulous look. “You _forgot_ , didn’t you?”

            “Yeah, well, as I said that was one _awkward_ conversation.”

            “Uh-huh.”

            “My dad brought up _Fifty Shades of Grey_ , okay?”

            Jughead winces. He rubs his arms. He’s still wearing Jason’s old clothes from _Thornhill_. He wants to go back to the drive-in and change, because Jason’s scent feels _wrong_ now, the clothes are _wrong_ and it’s all _wrong_ – he wants his own hoodie and jeans, even if they’re worn a bit thin and have some holes. He wants his damn _hat_ back! He really hopes it’s back at the _Twilight_ and not lost in the fucking woods somewhere.

            He doesn’t know what comes after _that_. He doesn’t have a plan. The _Wolf-Man_ ends with Lon Chaney getting shot. _An American Werewolf in London_ also ends with the werewolf getting shot.

            Is he going to wind up like Jason – and then is he going to _join_ Jason in whatever _ghost-hell-limbo-purgatory_ he’s stuck in? Is he going to _haunt_ Riverdale, float around the _Twilight_ upsetting film reels and scaring the patrons that they _don’t_ have because the Serpents have scared everyone away?

            And if he _doesn’t_ die? If no one _stops_ him – what happens _then_?

            So far in his life, the worst thing Jughead’s done is play with matches in Riverdale Elementary – he got sent to juvie for “arson” over that. This could be so, _so_ much worse.

            Last night, he acted without even knowing. He woke up in the woods naked and dirty, with great gaping holes in his memory.

            _It’s awful_ , he realizes, to be afraid of yourself. No matter where he runs – if he gets on a bus headed for Toledo, or farther, farther still - he’s _always_ going to be trapped in his own skin. He’s pretty sure he killed and ate a rabbit raw last night. His stomach clenches painfully at the thought he might wake up next to a shredded, half-eaten _human being_.

            Stiles sits down on the edge of the bed next to Jughead and puts an arm around him. “Hey. It’ll be okay. We’ll figure this out. I promise. Even if I have to keep you chained up in the cellar every month and feed you live mice -”

            Jughead shoves him off. “I’m a _werewolf_ not a pet snake, Stiles.”

            “Sorry,” Stiles snickers, “I had a boa once, it’s the first thing that came to mind.”

            Jughead shakes his head. “I guess the Blossoms might know what to do,” he says, but he doesn’t want to go back there, to those long empty hallways, to Cheryl Blossom and her frozen face, her brooding cousin, cruel parents. If they are something called a pack in this world, he doesn’t want any part of it.

_Jason hated it,_ he realizes suddenly, the force of the thought making him sit up a bit. _Jason loved his sister, but I think he hated her too. I think he hated all of them._

            “I don’t want to go back to _Thornhill_ ,” he says, his voice quiet, rough.

            Stiles doesn’t miss a beat. “So, we won’t,” he says, like it’s easy. “We don’t need them, anyway,” like they have a plan. Like it’s all going to be okay.

            Stiles takes Jughead’s hand and Jughead watches kind of awed, certainly surprised by the gesture. He’s fascinated by the way their fingers fit together. And the warmth of Stiles’ skin. He squeezes.

            “We got this,” says Stiles.

            _They don’t._ But meeting Stiles’ gaze, Jughead wishes he could force himself to smile. He can’t quite manage it. He hadn’t realized the sharp edge of his loneliness, not until now. This year has been nothing but one long nightmare – starting with his parents, Mom and Jellybean leaving, his dad drinking more and more, his cot out at the drive-in, then Betty gone to New York all summer, Archie ditching him with no explanation, Jason disappearing off the face of the Earth, only to turn up dead. _Not even mentioning this whole werewolf thing . . ._

            Part of him wants to grab onto Stiles and beg – _beg_ him not to disappear, like all the others . . . but he’s got more pride than that, for now, at least. Jughead draws a shaky breath and rubs the backs of Stiles’ fingers with his own. It makes the other boy smile. So. So there’s _that_ at least, he can give him.

            “Stiles . . .” he bites his lower lip, staring at the way their hands have fit – so naturally and easily. “Don’t let me hurt you.”

            Stiles smiles uncertainly. “You won’t,” he says, but they both know that’s wishful thinking at best. The monster in the woods – _glowing red eyes in the darkness -_ is that what’s going to happen to him, too? If it’s as bad as that, there’s no telling what he might do, who he might attack, hurt . . . kill. _Murder._ _Cannibalize?_

            _Fuck._ Reggie Mantle running his stupid mouth about necrophilia comes back, banging around in his skull and he can’t stop it – _can’t shut it off_ -  making him feel sick to his stomach – because who the hell _knows_ , right?

            He must make some noise, because Stiles presses their foreheads together, repeating that _it’s going to be alright, it’s going to be alright . . ._

            A sharp series of knocks against the bedroom door makes them both jump.

            “Ah – boys,” Sheriff Stilinski calls, clearing his throat too loudly. “You know I’d really feel much better if Jughead visited _downstairs_ \- in the _living room_ –”

            Stiles blushes. “Oh god. He thinks we’re-”

            Jughead buries his head in his hands.

 

 

            Dinner is take out from Pop Tate’s, which Jughead can’t complain about. But it’s as uncomfortable as expected. Every few moments Sheriff Stilinski clears his throat, eyes flickering to his son, then over to Jughead. Like he _wants_ to ask questions, but doesn’t. Like he’s not sure how to proceed with this, either.

            Jughead stares at the plate in front of him, listening to the crackle of the paper take-out bag and not meeting the sheriff’s gaze, wishing he was anywhere else.

            “Dad, you shouldn’t be eating those fries,” says Stiles.

            Stilinski rolls his eyes. “Stiles, it’s fine –”

            “But the doctor said you weren’t eating enough vegetables and –”

            “So, Jughead,” says the sheriff, pausing to wipe his mouth and ignoring Stiles for the moment, and Jughead has the sense they’ve had this fries versus veggies debate before. “What do your parents do for a living?”

            He says it in a friendly enough tone, but Jughead can’t help feeling like this is _a trap_. His heart beats faster and luckily he’s in the middle of chewing his burger, so that gives him a good excuse not to answer for a few seconds. The sheriff stares at him and so does Stiles - regarding him with not-so-subtle curiosity, because they haven’t exactly talked about this, either. All these thoughts are going through Jughead’s mind – like, _does the sheriff know his dad’s in the Serpents,_ and, if he _does_ , what _the hell_ does he want Jughead to _say_?

            Or maybe not, even his (former) best friend, Archie, didn’t know it. Maybe Sheriff Stilinski hasn’t made the connection that _Jughead_ Jones and _FP_ Jones are even _related_   – it is a common enough last name, after all.

            All these thoughts spiral around, making him feel a little sick, but he manages to swallow his burger and scrape together an answer that’s not totally horrible.

            “Uh . . . well, my mom’s working in a call centre,” he says. He _doesn’t_ say that the call centre is in _Toledo_. “And my dad . . . my dad works in construction. Mostly.” Jughead mumbles, taking another big bite of the burger, so he won’t have to answer any follow up questions.

            It’s not _exactly_ a lie. His dad _used_ to work in construction, with Archie’s father. Back before the constant drinking, the bikers, the bar fights, all of that.

            _Construction_. Building things. That’s funny. He always thinks of FP more as a _destructive_ force – directionless fury and rage.

            Sheriff Stilinski nods politely. He doesn’t ask anything more, for which Jughead is grateful.

            Stiles adds, “Jughead works part-time at the _Twilight_.” It’s kind of a weird thing to add, but at least they’re not talking about his _parents_ anymore. Still, Jughead would much rather not talk about himself at all.

            “Really?” the sheriff asks. “That old place? That takes me back - I haven’t been there in years.”

            _Yeah, no one has,_ Jughead thinks, _no one but the Serpents who are just there to sell weed and shoot the shit. That’s why the land’s for sale. That’s why it probably won’t be there much longer._

There’s not much he can say to comments like the sheriff’s– he never knows how he’s supposed to react when people says stuff like that. Is he supposed to laugh _at himself_ for them? Yeah, he works at the drive-in, something no one even _goes to_ anymore. A dusty old relic no one cares about.

            He frowns, picking at his food.

            Apparently Stiles feels the need to get defensive on his behalf though, because he says, “no, no me and Scott went there a bunch of times during the summer. It’s really cool. They show a ton of old movies.”

            “Well, I hope you boys are careful. We’ve had reports of local gangs meeting out there.”

            If Stiles and his friends _did_ go to the drive-in during the summer (Jughead can’t remember, but he spent most of the summer in a daze, thinking about other things – _Archie, Jason_ ) they must have seen the Serpents, huddled around the back of the lot with their bikes, yelling and carrying on during most of the movies, unless there was something better to do at the _Whyte Wyrm._

            Stiles, gratefully, doesn’t mention this. It’s not a conversation Jughead wants to have with the town sheriff, for fuck’s sake.

            They spend the rest of the meal casting around clumsily for new topics of conversation – well, Stiles and his dad do, anyway. Jughead remains mostly silent. He’s worried Stiles will think he’s not making enough of an effort, but what’s he _supposed_ to talk about? Despite everything, he doesn’t want to accidentally let something slip that will get his dad in trouble. He doesn’t even know _why_ he’s protecting him anymore, but it’s so ingrained he can’t help it. If there’s one thing that’s been drilled into his head since infancy, it’s _not to tell people about the Jones family problems._

            And if he _did_ , he’s pretty sure Sheriff Stilinski wouldn’t want him anywhere _near_ his son.

            So, Stiles talks about some class projects and lacrosse. He asks his dad for updates on the investigation (“You know I can’t talk to you about that!”) and Jughead wonders if they’re as uncomfortable as he is, if this whole thing wasn’t just a gigantic mistake.

            Part of him is _so sure_ he shouldn’t be here – he doesn’t belong here at all. He belongs back in the dusty booth at the drive-in with Jason’s ghost, waiting for the moon to rise, tugging whatever insanity it brings with it up into the writhing dark. Just waiting to become a monster and kill or die.

            _The moon, the moon_ – maybe part of his discomfort comes from that. He’s tugging at the sleeves of his _(Jason’s)_ shirt, and starting to break out in a cold sweat. Luckily, they’re all finishing eating, and it’s only a _little_ bit rude when he stands up, trying not to look at Stiles (concerned) and Sheriff Stilinski (surprised/suspicious?)

            Jughead mumbles something about not feeling well, needing to go. Does he remember to thank them for dinner? He’s not sure, the room is spinning and the next thing he knows the cool night air is hitting him in the face.

            He’s outside, on the street in front of the Stilinskis’ house. At least out here he feels like he can breathe.

            His skin is on fire. The sky is dark but the moon overhead is so bright and flat, a glowing disc. _Calling to him. Singing to him. Making his blood spark and hum beneath his skin._

            They left this too long, he realizes, beginning to move quickly. He wants to get as far away from the house as possible – put as much space between himself and Stiles and the sheriff as he can before whatever happens, happens.

            Predictably, Stiles doesn’t let him. He’s somehow there, running out of the house, jogging to catch up with him. “Hey! Hey, Jughead, wait –”

            Jughead feels the growl rising, rumbling out of his chest, out of someplace buried deep below, rattling against his ribs and clawing up his throat.

            The wind’s in his face and Stiles’ scent hits him. The smell sizzles in his brain, shooting out all sorts of signals – he can’t decide if he’s _hungry_ , or – or something else.

            Jughead’s hands hurt. Glancing down, he stares in shock at the elongated claws at the ends of his arms. His first instinct is to shake them, like he could shake them _off_ , but they’re his own hands – nails long talons, thick dark hair spurting from his knuckles, itching, burning.

            He’s too hot. Sweat drips down his back, plastering his shirt there and he can feel the hairs growing out of his skin.

            He growls again as Stiles comes closer, and snaps at him, snarling. He feels the curl of his lips, can’t fight it. His teeth are longer, aching in his jaw. His breath is ragged, heaving gasps. The pain is like this huge thing growing and expanding wildly within him, something he can barely hold onto. In a second he’s going to scream.

            Stiles backs away, but only a couple steps, raising his hands. “Hey, hey, it’s okay . . . Jughead. Jug, it’s me, it’s me, _Stiles_. Okay? . . .” he’s saying, again and again, his voice low and soothing. Stepping towards him again. Slowly.

            _Does this kid have_ any _survival instincts?_ Jughead thinks wildly. His head is splitting in two. He hunches forward, a thin line of saliva dripping from his snarling lips.

            “We have to get you off the street,” Stiles says. His hand comes and rests on Jughead’s arm.

            Jughead snaps up, and for one terrifying moment he thinks he’s going to bite Stiles hand clean off, even though he doesn’t _want_ to – he’s screaming at himself, inside his own head: _don’t hurt Stiles!_

            He’s trying, with everything he’s got, to pull himself back together, behind the constant roar of pain and the fire. _The moon sings in his veins_.

            And he . . . Somehow he manages to hold it back. _The rage. The chaos. The hunger. The fury._

            Staggering drunkenly, Jughead almost falls, but Stiles catches him, holding him up and guiding him off the road. Luckily, the street’s not busy, and Stiles leads him to a bench beside the sidewalk.

            Stiles talks softly to him the entire time, rubbing his arms. His touch, somehow, slows down Jughead’s erratic heartbeat. The agony recedes, slipping back until it’s something he can get a grip on. He’s able to _focus_ again, after a moment. Stiles’ face swims into view. Stiles, not hurt. _Thank God._

            Jughead is sitting on the bench and Stiles crouches in front of him. “Hey.”

            “ _Hey_ ,” he says, struggling to form his lips around the fangs he can feel jutting from his mouth.

            Stiles breathes a sigh of relief. His hand lands on Jughead’s wrist. “You’re doing it! You’re really controlling it!”

            Yeah, Jughead can feel his heart rate slowing, his transformation halted. _But why? How?_   Stiles is rubbing the bare skin of Jughead’s wrist with his thumb, and he thinks – _maybe –_

            A car skids to a stop beside them and Stiles leaps up, shielding Jughead from the sight of whoever’s in the vehicle, but Jughead hears doors open. The engine’s idling. Whoever this is, they _want_ to see him.

            He catches a familiar scent, and the next moment he’s standing, pushing Stiles out of the way. He's bristling all over. For the first time in his life - _the moon is singing him on, his blood is boiling_ \- Jughead _wants_ to fight!

            Cheryl and Derek step around Stiles, coolly ignoring him, their bodies silhouetted in the glare of car’s headlights.

            “What do you think you’re doing?” Stiles says.

            Cheryl smirks, raises one perfectly manicured hand and gives him what looks like a gentle tap on the shoulder. Stiles is sent stumbling backwards, falling on his ass. He scrambles back and Jughead leaps off the bench.

            He’s operating on pure instinct now, the sounds coming from his throat somewhere between a growl and a roar. His claws extend and he almost reaches Cheryl, when her cousin grabs him, throwing him down. The wind is knocked out of him and for a moment, even the wild rage of the wolf is silenced.

            Derek and Cheryl loom over them. Derek’s eyes glow red, hers are molten gold. _And are their shadows splayed across the road are lupine and jagged, with wild spikes of fur and pointed triangle ears._

Jughead struggles to get up, snapping at them. Derek’s eyes glow even brighter, and his mouth is full of fangs, but he doesn’t otherwise change. He grabs Jughead, driving him back to the ground and pinning him there. Over Derek’s shoulder, Jughead sees that Cheryl hasn’t transformed at all - she’s in complete control, not one strand of long red hair out of place.

            “Get off him!” yells Stiles. “I’m not scared of you!”

            Derek turns to him, growls like thunder breaking and Stiles falls silent, swallowing hard. Jughead can smell the sweat on him, hear his rising pulse. He knows Stiles is lying. He knows Stiles is terrified.

            “A _human_?” says Derek, grabbing Jughead by the collar of his shirt and slamming him back into the pavement. “You told a _human_?”

            Pain shoots through his skull. Bright spots swim across his vision.

            “ _Derek_!” Cheryl hisses. She grabs his arm, fingers digging into his leather jacket, pulling him up, off Jughead. “I told you! He’s mine. _Ours._ He’s _pack_.”

            Derek releases Jughead, and Cheryl smiles, her fake red smile. She extends a hand to help him up.

            Jughead stares at her hand for a moment, the anger roiling around hot in his gut. He swipes at her hand and her smile only grows wider. _One of us,_ that condescending smile seems to say. Jughead growls.  

            “Help me get him to the car,” says Cheryl. Derek grunts in affirmation, and a second later they each have him by the arms and are heaving him up with werewolf strength.

            “What are you doing?” shouts Stiles. “Leave him alone!”

            “We’re trying to _help_ your friend, okay?” snarls Derek. “Or do you _want_ him to kill someone tonight?”

            Jughead struggles against them, twisting and thrashing. He manages to slam into Cheryl, catching her off balance and knocking her back. She stumbles, but immediately catches herself and turns, her eyes blazing, burning suns in a face twisted up in a snarl. Her teeth have grown long and pointed. Her face itself is growing longer, rippling into a snout-like shape. With an enraged yowl she swipes at him and a flash of pain cuts across his chest.

            She’s torn Jason’s shirt, and he feels warm blood drip down. Stiles is yelling, as Jughead stumbles backwards and Derek’s arms wrap around him – impossibly strong, trying to break out of his grip is like trying to wrestle with a statue.

            He hears Stiles in the background and wonders that it doesn’t get anyone in the neighborhood to come running. They’re only a block or so from the Stilinski house, and he wonders if his dad hears them. If the sheriff is about to come running out, or if police cars are already on their way

            Cheryl and Derek seem to have the same thought, because Derek gets him in a strangle-hold and says: “stop playing around!”

            “I’ll take care of it,” says Cheryl.

            Pain explodes in the back of Jughead’s skull then, and he’s _falling. Falling. Falling._

            The world goes dark.

 

*           *           *           *

 

            Lydia Martin realizes she’s walking by the river. The last thing she did was undress and brush her teeth and climb into bed. Now she’s outside, in the night, by the Sweetwater River.

            The wind is cold off the water and whips her long hair back, strawberry blonde curls rippling down her shoulders and across her back. Lydia glances down. She’s wearing only a thin nightgown. Her bare feet sting from small cuts and scrapes from the road, in the places where they’re not going numb from the cold.

            She shivers violently, heart in her throat. Her hands raise slowly to tug helplessly at her hair. _No. Not again. Not again!_

            A scream wells up within her, pulled from the very core of her being. She can’t stop it. Lydia is a vessel for the scream to pass through and it rips out of her throat painfully. Lydia screams on the shore of the Sweetwater River. She screams and screams, pulling at her hair and stumbling on numb feet.

            She falls on her knees in the mud, the water rushing by, crashing and splitting in a thunderous din over rocks, churning white caps – spitting foam. It’s dark – past midnight, but the moon is full and sets the tendrils of fog rising off the river aglow. Like an alien landscape. She’s lost in silver mist that dampens her nightgown, plastering it to her shivering flesh.

            Lydia screams again, screams herself hoarse and breaks down in tears. Her hands dig in the mud.

            _How? Why?_

            Ever since the summer – since ( _No._ She doesn’t think about _that_.)

            She’s been here before. Since the summer. When the nightmares started. The nightmares and the sleepwalking. Always to the river. No matter if she drags her dresser in front of her bedroom door to block it, if she locks the doors and windows before going to sleep. At least once a week, Lydia finds herself in the nightmare, and the nightmare always leads her down to the river and _she always wakes up screaming._

            The wind stirs the treetops, creaking branches together like the rattle of old bones and the moonlight glances of the water in dagger-thin strips. The fog obscures everything more than a few feet in front of her and Lydia sits up, wiping her streaming eyes and nose with muddy hands. Mud on her face, in her hair. She knows she has to contain herself – hold it together.

            She pulls herself to her feet shakily and begins shuffling forwards. The river gurgles and spits against the rocks. She thinks of Jason Blossom’s body being found there – _half of it, anyway_ – and immediately tries to push the thought away. She never liked the Blossoms, anyway.

            _Come on_ , she moves forwards, knows that if she keeps walking, sooner or later she’ll have to find something. The road, the way back into town. She remembers some lines from an old book – her favourite book, in childhood –

 

_“Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?”_

_“That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,” said the Cat._

_“I don’t much care where-” said Alice._

_“Then it doesn’t matter which way you go,” said the Cat._

_“-so long as I get_ somewhere _,” Alice added as an explanation._

_“Oh, you’re sure to do that,” said the Cat, “if you only walk long enough.”_

 

            But no, why is Lydia thinking about _Alice’s Adventures in_ _Wonderland_ now? Maybe because she’s walking through a _real_ dreamscape – but it’s far more of a nightmare than _Wonderland_. She can taste the river on her tongue, feel the ground cut into her aching feet. And she can’t. Stop. Shivering. Lydia sneezes.

            Oh, great. She’s probably going to get _sick_ from all this, too.

            Lydia walks.

            And while she’s walking, she’s trying hard not to think about the thing that happened last summer, or the nightmares that still cling sticky-like to her conscious mind - images float just behind her eyelids. _Dead bodies. Blood and bone. A grin as long and unnatural as the Cheshire Cat’s._

            She’s also trying not to think about how fucking _cold_ and _wet_ she is, or how it’s _so dark_ and the fog is like _spiderwebs_ clinging to her nightdress. It’s like she’s wandered onto the set of every teen slasher horror movie ever. _Stop it,_ she tells herself.

            She tries to think about other things instead. _Other things,_ like the dance and the stupid party afterwards, where she made her stupid mistake. Ever since this summer, she just keeps making one mistake after the other. She drove Jackson away. She drove all of her old friends away.

            She drove Betty away.

            It’s like there are two Lydia Martins, vying for control, tearing her one way and the other.

            She shivers, rubbing her bare arms. Overhead, the moon is like a beacon, or a singular, silver eye. But the image of _Betty_ in her mind is perfect – angelic, almost, or something – her soft expression, pink rose lips and eyes sparkling in the light of the school dance. Betty Cooper’s hair a golden halo around her face, the soft rustle of their dresses moving together. Her arms around Lydia when they stepped out onto that dance floor, when she hadn’t had to think or care about anything, and it felt just moving through space and light.

            With Betty, Lydia danced across clouds.

            _And then that kiss at Cheryl’s and everything that came after it._

            _Implosion,_ and _yes,_ she panicked - shot off her mouth like always, like she _has_ to push every fucking person away as soon as they get close because – _because_ – Lydia stumbles, her toe jabbing a particularly sharp rock. She cries out in pain, hopping and slipping on the mud. She falls.

            What’s she even going to do when she gets to the road? She’s practically naked and she must look deranged. Panic starts to spread through her chest, paralyzing her. _What’s she going to do?_

_What’s she going to do?_

            She must have been closer to the road than she first thought, because car beams peal through the fog then, and she hears the crunch of tires over gravel. She hears the vehicle pull over, and doesn’t know whether she should jump up screaming for help, or run away as fast as she can in the opposite direction. _Who knows_ who’s in that car and what they’ll get it into their head _to do_ when they come across a teenage girl, all alone, at night.

            The panic seizes her more tightly and Lydia feels another scream rising, clawing its way up to her throat.

            There’s the click of a car door opening and she pulls her legs up against her chest, wrapping her arms around them and pressing her face against her legs. Her shoulders shake with the urge to shriek she thinks, _if they come near me I’ll snap, shatter into a million screaming pieces_ – _I’ll_ – scream at them - _I'll_ -

            Lydia doesn’t know _what_ she’ll do – like Alice, falling down the rabbit hole, she doesn’t even know who she _is_ anymore. She’s changed too much since waking up.

            She can’t think – she can’t stop shaking – she –

            “Oh my god, is that Lydia Martin?” a familiar voice shouts. “Lydia? _Lydia_?!”

            Finally, she looks up, squinting against the light and wiping her eyes to see _Kevin Keller_ walking towards her, using his phone as a flashlight. Danny is climbing out of the car behind him, and he’s already on the phone to 9-1-1.

            _No,_ she wants to tell them, _don’t call the police, the ambulance. They’ll send me away, lock me away in Eichen House._ But she can’t even speak, her teeth are chattering together too violently.

            Kevin runs to her, shrugging off his coat and immediately falls to his knees beside her, wrapping it around her shoulders. “Oh my god, Lydia, you’re soaking wet! You're freezing! What _happened_?”

            She can’t speak, and shakes her head, leaning into his touch because Kevin and Danny are good, the only ones of Jackson’s friends to ever really be nice to her, to ever treat her like an actual human being. She clings to him, shivering, while Kevin tells her: “It’s going to be okay. It's going to be okay, Lydia. Help is on the way.”

            She wants to laugh and cry and say _no, no it isn’t_. She wants to say, _you’re so sweet, Kevin – but you’re too innocent. You don’t know what’s coming._

_You don’t know what’s coming at all. No one does._

            

*           *           *           *

 

            Jughead wakes up in a dungeon. _No,_ he shakes his head and immediately winces. It must be the basement of _Thornhill_ , because Cheryl is there, sitting on a high-backed, wooden chair, set a few feet away from him. She’s watching him. She’s wearing a long white dress – old fashioned, with lace and frills, and disturbingly bridal. The walls are stone and the floor is cement. There are some old boxes and crates, so it’s a storage space – mostly. But Jughead is _chained_ – actually _chained_ , with heavy iron manacles to the wall and the links clang when he lunges forwards, the instinct to try and break them.

            He can’t help it - he _growls_ and tries again, throwing his entire weight against them. The chains rattle and clang but he can’t rip the heavy iron anchors out of the wall. And Stiles isn’t here. _Stiles. Isn’t. Here._ Jughead throws his head back and howls, straining against the metal and iron.

            “Oh, calm down,” says Cheryl, clicking her tongue, _tut-tut._ She’s carefully just out of reach of his claws. She tilts her head, smiling at him. “It’s for your own good.”

            Jughead tries to tell her exactly what he thinks of her, but the words don’t come out right – only snarls and growls and Cheryl laughs. The sound is like fingernails on a chalkboard to him, echoing in the underground chamber.

            “Don’t worry. We’ll teach you control, little puppy.”

            _Bullshit._ The only thing that made him feel like he was in control at all was . . _. Stiles_. Jughead howls again. He can’t help it, the instinct is too strong, overriding his human mind.

            Cheryl frowns for the first time. “Who are you _calling_?” she asks him. “I told you – _we’re_ your pack. We’re your family now, your loyalty is to _us_.”

            Jughead sags against his bindings, breathing deeply, trying to build up his strength – for what, he’s not sure. But he’s going to keep trying until he can get away.

            “Like . . . _Hell_ ,” he says. By concentrating on each word carefully, he finds he _is_ able to speak, with difficulty, around his wolf-man teeth.

            “This is a _gift_!” she tells him, standing. “You should be _honored_!”

            _This again,_ he thinks, and the growls keep reverberating through his chest.

            He wasn’t _angry_ when he was with Stiles. Now he can’t stop the rage crashing over him. He fights against the chains again, wanting to _attack_ Cheryl – like he’s never wanted to attack anyone before. _This must be the bloodlust_ , he's crackling with it. He screams in rage.

            She doesn’t seem disturbed. “The Blossoms family is the most powerful pack in the state, Jughead. We _rule_ here – we rule like kings. A worm like you would never be allowed in, normally. You’d be cursed to be a lowly _omega_ , a lone wolf outcast with no one to rely on, no one to protect you.”

            Cheryl moves closer, within range of his claws now, but unafraid. She raises a hand, pulling off a white, lace glove.

            She slowly brushes Jughead’s face with her bare hand. He can feel how the transformation has changed him, but she smooths the wiry fur back, almost gentle.

            “You don’t know how dangerous it can be for our kind. You need us to protect you and to teach you,” she murmurs, leaning closer. Jughead growls, but he’s suddenly too wary to bite her. He doesn’t like the violence he feels coursing through him and he’s trying to hold it back. Trying to hold onto himself, the Jughead Jones _he_ recognizes, not _the wolf_.

            “Consider it _Jason’_ s last gift to you -” her throat catches on her brother’s name and for a moment, he can almost believe Cheryl Blossom has a heart and that it’s breaking.

            “He chose you. _He. Chose. You_ ,” she repeats, uttering each word carefully, like they are knives she’s flicking into Jughead’s skin. Her eyes burn into Jughead.

            All of a sudden, she draws her hand back and slaps him. The stinging smack rings through the basement and the side of his face burns. His eyes water. He guesses she put werewolf strength behind it, because it _hurts_.

            She leans closer, so their noses are almost touching. “You don’t deserve the wolf’s gift.”

            “Then why did you bite me?”

            Cheryl leans back at that. The surprise on her face is genuine, if momentary. “ _Bite_ you? _Bite you?!”_ and she starts to laugh, a high-pitched, awful sound. “ _I_ didn’t bite you, Jughead. You think _I_ would besmirch the Blossom name by initiating a fucking _bum_ who lives at a piece of shit _drive-in_? You think _I_ wanted _this_?!”

            She laughs more, but there are tears glinting brightly in her eyes. They don’t fall, but they’re _there_. She snarls at him, her teeth growing longer. He raises his arms to defend himself, but he’s stopped by the chains.

            “ _Cheryl_ ,” a woman’s voice says sharply.

            Cheryl falls back, lowers her face. Her long hair falls in front of her like a veil, and when she looks up again she’s got her human mask firmly in place. She’s just _Cheryl_ again. Just a girl in a vintage white gown, her hair dropping loose over her shoulders, her eyes downcast.

            Jughead vaguely recognizes the woman standing in the doorway as her mother, Penelope Blossom. The woman’s face is stern, her red hair coiled on-top of her head in a tight bun. Her dark suit jacket and skirt are immaculate, professional. Her heels click on the cement floor as she walks over to them, arms crossed, looking down her nose at Jughead like he’s a piece of roadkill inexplicably dragged into her multi-million-dollar home.

            “It was _you_ who insisted we do this,” says Penelope to her daughter, “though I can’t imagine why.”

            Cheryl sniffs. Her posture is stiff, her hands shaking. “Mother, he and _Jay-Jay_ -”

            “ _Quiet_ ,” Penelope snaps, and Cheryl instantly falls silent.

            When the woman’s eyes fall on Jughead he wishes he was anywhere else. He feels like those eyes are peeling back his skin, seeing every part of him and being utterly _revolted_ by what they find.

            She crosses the room in a few quick steps and strikes Jughead in the face, even harder than Cheryl. His head snaps back, bouncing off the stone wall with a crack.

            “You piece of filth –” she hits him again, and again. “How dare you touch my son?!” She hits him again, and he tastes blood against his teeth. He can’t get away – Cheryl is screaming at her to _stop, please stop._

            “Oh, quit your _whining_ , Cheryl,” Penelope says, stepping back, straightening her jacket and tucking a stray red hair primly behind her ear. “He’ll _heal_. He’s one of _us_ , after all.” Her lip curls in disgust. “You got what you wanted. This piece of trash is _alive_ and safe while your brother rots in the god-forsaken earth!”

            Cheryl chokes back a sob and, through his watering eyes, Jughead sees her press her hands to her face. Penelope Blossom gives her daughter a look of disgust.

            She turns back to Jughead and grips his left forearm, below where the manacles are fastened. Her hand is like iron itself, and he sees her eyes glow yellow a second before she twists.

            He hears the snap of bone, the loud crack and pain rips through him, pain like he’s never felt before. Pain even worse than the transformation. Jughead screams. Cheryl screams.

            Penelope places one of her high-heels on his leg and pushes with inhuman force. The nail breaks through skin. She kicks him and steps back, seeming to admire her work.

            “Mother, stop, please stop –” Cheryl cries, trying to hold her back.

            Penelope throws her off. The beast is rearing in her eyes, filling her face. Her lips split apart, wider and wider, her grin too-long and full of shark teeth.

            In the next second she looks normal again, but Jughead can’t help cringing, now that he’s been given a glimpse of what lives beneath the polished Blossom façade. They look like living nightmares. He knows he stinks with fear.

            “Did you _actually_ believe you were worthy of my son?” Penelope Blossom asks.

            “N-no,” says Jughead, his broken arm in _agony_ so badly he can’t even feel the puncture wound in his leg.

            Penelope smirks. She crosses to the old boxes and crates stacked against the wall and lifts the lid of one of them, wiping away a decade’s worth of dust. It creaks ominously and Jughead struggles against the chains with his good arm, but he still can’t make them budge.

            “So you admit you deserve to be punished for what you did?”

            _What_ did _he do?_ Jughead wonders. She’s acting like _he_ corrupted _Jason,_ but, Jughead realizes, nothing he says will convince her otherwise. She’s psychotic. She’s everything Jason said, and worse.

            She turns back to him, holding a thick leather strap. The kind they used to beat kids with, back in the dark ages. Cheryl whimpers, but stays as far away as she can, edging further into the corner.

            FP’s taken his belt to him a few times as well, especially back around the time he ended up in juvie (as though he didn’t get beat up enough in there, he had to get more of it when he was finally sent home,) so at first Jughead thinks he should be able to deal with this, right?

            But FP – despite being a biker – did not have a werewolf’s strength behind his blows. The leather strap lands on Jughead’s shoulder first and the strike draws a scream out of him before he can stop himself.

            His eyes instantly flood with tears, but the strip of leather is already coming down again. It catches him on the hip – biting through his layers of clothes with the sharpness of a bite.

            Cheryl is curled up in the corner crying, and Penelope doesn’t stop. The blows come down and Jughead screams, his screams echoing off the stone walls. But no one hears him, or if they hear him they don't come for him.

            Penelope hits him again, this time catching him on the face. It burns and probably comes close to taking an eye out. Jughead screams and tries to curl as much as he can, to protect himself, but of course the shackles and chains are in the way. 

            Penelope keeps hitting him, each blow landing more painful than the last, biting into his skin, leaving long red welts, the sound of each strike echoing, filling the world. That and his screams.

            Penelope is silent, but she's smiling. 

 

*           *           *           *

 

            Jughead wakes up in a bed. He jerks awake, gasping and shaking.

            He's alone and slowly falls back against a stack of too many pillows. It's a huge bed, with a satin comforter, scarlet with embroidery and a massive headboard, shaped almost like a crown, the frame polished wood, carved into ornate swirling arches. A round porthole-shaped window directly above him, letting the light stream in. _Light._ _So it’s morning._

He takes a deep breath and raises trembling hands to touch his face. _Human again. No fur. No fangs. No pointed ears._

_Human_

_and alive_

            The strangest thing is that nothing hurts. Of course he remembers the pain - he cringes, close to having a full-blown panic attack. After breathing deeply for a several minutes he's able to sit up again, wiping his eyes on the blankets.

            Even his arm is alright – he touches it in disbelief. And there are no bruises or welts from the strap – _that psycho, Penelope_ – his heart starts racing just thinking about it. _It wasn’t a dream, but . . ._

            He throws the covers off, finds that someone changed him into a pair of loose-fitting cotton pajama bottoms. He pushes up the pant leg and finds no trace of the puncture wound – but he definitely remembers _Penelope, driving the heel of her shoe through his skin . . ._

Jughead swallows, and falls back against the mountain of pillows. He wrinkles his nose. _It smells like Cheryl._

Right on cue, the door opens a crack and Cheryl slips through. She’s wearing a blue blazer with a large red spider broach positioned on her lapel – it looks like it’s going to crawl up her neck on thin gold legs, its scarlet back already heavy with blood.

            She looks at him for a long moment, and closes the door gently behind her. “She’ll keep trying to break you,” she says softly. “It’s what she does.”

            Jughead says nothing. He can’t think of anything to say. Cheryl stands in front of him, and all he can think of is her last night – crying in the corner. He thinks, _how fucked up we all are, all of us, the kids of this town._

            She crosses the room and sits down beside him on the bed, pulling one of the decorative pillows into her lap and playing with the corners absently. “You blacked out. Slept through the healing. It’s just as well. I set your arm. It’s a mess if it heals with a break like that.”

            He glances down at the arm again. Maybe he should thank her for that, but maybe not. She wouldn’t have had to play nursemaid if she hadn’t brought him to her family’s screwed-up torture dungeon in the first place.

            “I didn’t know she was going to do that,” she says finally, after the silence stretches on far too long, and her eyes flicker to him for the first time. He sees they’re red and raw from crying.

            Jughead takes a breath. He wants to say, _it’s not your fault, Cheryl._ But he also wants to say, _but you thought she might._

            And he healed, but that _doesn’t make it okay_. All of this is _very, very_ far from okay. 

            “It wasn’t supposed to be like this . . . none of it,” she says, sounding very small and scared. It’s such a strange tone to hear from _Cheryl Blossom_ , queen bee of Riverdale High.

            Jughead supposes Jason was right, and he’s never really known her at all.

            “We’re monsters,” Cheryl says, very faintly, almost a whisper. “Power and position are the most important things to a werewolf. The majority of a pack is made up of _betas_ – my mother and I, for instance. Jason. The leader is an _alpha_. You can tell by the eyes. Alpha’s eyes glow red.”

            _Red._ Like the eyes he saw in the wood that night when he and Stiles found the body. “The werewolf who bit me . . .”

            “ _Had_ to be an alpha,” she says. “Only the bite of an alpha can pass on the curse.”

            “So who-?”

            She shrugs, tossing her long red hair over one shoulder. “We don’t know. Believe me, it’s trouble for us – an interloper on our territory, and drawing attention to us. Daddy’s worried about hunters. He says that’s who killed Jason . . .” Cheryl’s eyes fill with tears again and she draws her legs up, so she’s huddled on the bed.

            She lies down next to him, which is weird and Jughead tries to shift away, when she grabs his wrist and holds on tightly. “ _Please_ ,” she says. “Jay-Jay’s dead. Jay-Jay’s dead and I’m alone. I’m all alone now. I’m . . . really . . . alone.”

            She closes her eyes, tears leaking out and running down, falling onto the pillows. Jughead stares at her, can’t believe he’s seeing _Cheryl_ like this. He doesn’t know what to do or say. Nothing he could say could possibly be enough, after all. Her brother is dead. He thinks about telling her about the ghost, but can’t quite bring himself to say it – it seems too cruel. Let her believe he’s resting in peace.

            “You have to understand,” she says, wiping her eyes and lifting her head to look at him. “There are people out there who want us _dead_. Humans who know about us. _Hunters._ There are whole families of them. They indoctrinate their own children into the cause. That’s why a new wolf like you – you _need_ an alpha to protect you. You need one or . . . or you’ll end up like . . .” she shuts her eyes tightly, rolling over so she’s not facing him.

            Jughead sits there stiffly, trying to pretend he can’t hear her muffled sobs.

            After a minute he reaches out tentatively and touches her shoulder. He’s acutely aware he’s bad at this. “I’m . . . Cheryl, I’m sorry.” And he is. He’s sorry she lost her brother. He’s sorry Jason’s dead. He’s sorry she lives in this terrifying house with a psychotic mother. “I’m sorry, but. I’m not staying here. And neither should you. Whoever these hunters are – this – I mean, your parents have a fucking _torture_ - _dungeon_ in the basement!”

            “Yes . . .” she says, sniffling and wiping her nose on the back of her hand. “Jay-Jay had this crazy idea. Just a dream, really. He wanted the three of us to run away together. Far away from the pack, my parents, the rest of the Blossoms. He wanted us to leave Riverdale and go somewhere no one – no wolves, or hunters – would know our names.”

            Jughead stares at her. All of a sudden he can’t even breathe. He’s very aware of the heavy thud of his own heart. He can’t believe what he’s hearing.

            “Jason . . .” his voice is thick. “Jason said that?”

            The next thing he knows, tears are falling from his eyes. He can’t hold them back. He turns away, so they’re there, on the bed, back-to-back, each lost in their own grief, mourning. His shoulders shake. He never thought Jason was really serious about him, in any way.

            Hearing it now is like a punch in the gut. _And where are you then?_ he thinks, cursing the ghost Jason’s become, leaving him here, abandoning him and Cheryl and everything.

            She rubs her head against the side of the pillow, nodding. “I think he knew we’d never make it, though,” she whispers, curling up into a tighter ball. “Jughead, no one gets out alive.”

            They stay that way, on Cheryl’s bed, for a long time.


	7. (whose echoes live in memory yet)

            Jughead must have drifted off again, he realizes, as he’s coming awake to the faint _creak-creak_ of wheels turning over the wooden floor. _Creak-creak._ _Creak-creak._ Something ominous in that. Frowning, he opens his eyes - and nearly jumps out of his skin when he sees an old woman staring down at him with the familiar icy Blossom disdain. Her hair is white, but one thick shock of Blossom-red that sticks up like a streak of blood in the snow.

            He flails wildly in the mess of blankets, knocking into Cheryl, whom he forgot was beside him. She yawns, stretches cat-like and sits up next to him on the bed. “Oh, hello, Nana,” Cheryl coos, draping herself over Jughead - which just makes him more panicky and uncomfortable.

            He tries to get away from Cheryl, without being so rude as to actually _shove_ her onto the floor in front of her grandmother. She wraps an arm around him from behind and he freezes. Her long hair tickles his skin and her sharp chin digs into his bare shoulder. “Nana Rose, this is _Jughead_. You remember Jughead.”

            _How?_ He’s fairly certain he would remember meeting her – Nana Rose is a hundred years old, wearing an antique Victorian gown (black, of course) complete with cameo broach clipped to her neck. One of her eyes is dulled, occluded, and she’s confined to that creaking wheelchair, another relic, by the looks of it. He wouldn’t have forgotten meeting her. Unless Cheryl and her family have been talking about him, which makes his skin crawl.  

            He’s also thinking this is the worst possible way to be introduced to a geriatric – half naked with Cheryl draping herself all over him. He tries to get out of her embrace again, pushing her to arms-length and giving her serious wtf face.

            Cheryl is ten kinds of crazy, though, and doesn't even notice.

            “The newest addition to the litter,” Nana Rose says, huffing out a ragged cough, into a lacy napkin that almost looks like a collection of spider webs. Every time Jughead thinks the Blossoms couldn’t possibly get anymore weird and creepy, they outdo themselves for him.

            Rose sees his gaze and he realizes her good eye is sharp – her mouth curls into a critical scowl. “Another squirmy puppy, still wet behind the ears. Well, come closer, boy - let me look at you.”

            Jughead leans backwards instead and crawls around Cheryl, jumping off the far end of the bed – on the side opposite the seriously scary grandmother. “Actually I should really – _really_ – be going.”

            “Don’t be ridiculous,” Rose snaps in a tone that arrests him with its severity. “Thornhill is your home now.”

            _Yeah, I don’t think so,_ but he swallows and winces as Grandma Blossom glares at him, dissecting him with her one good eye. “

            You are a pretty young thing, aren’t you?” she asks, and she doesn’t look pleased about it. If anything she looks more disgusted. Jughead would ordinarily object to being called ‘pretty’ by anyone, under any circumstances, but he just wants this strange encounter to end. So he says nothing, hands curling at his sides, heart racing because he has to figure out how to get out of his madhouse.

            The old woman says: “I suppose you’ll suffice as a mate for our dour _Mr. Hale_.”

            _What. “Mate?”_ That doesn’t mean what he _thinks_ it means – does it?

            Jughead’s brain basically crashes with this information and all he can manage is a very inarticulate “Uhhhgh….?!” His brow scrunches as he tries to work out who the hell _‘Mr. Hale’_ is, anyway.

            Cheryl, seeing his confusion, mouths “Derek.”

            His eyebrows shoot up and he almost bursts into hysterical laughter. _Almost._

            Rose can’t _actually_ be saying Jughead’s supposed to be Derek’s “mate?” Is that the werewolf equivalent to _marriage,_ or what?

            _What the actual fuck_? _Why is everything the Blossoms do insane?_

            “Yeah, _no,”_ he says.

            Rose frowns, a severe scowl that makes her just as chilling as Penelope. Jughead shudders and back directly into the heavy oak door of Cheryl’s bedroom. He fumbles for the handle – feels ice-cold brass bite into his skin – without looking away from either of them.

            Cheryl is pouting, tossing her hair over her shoulder, still lounging on the bed. “Well, don’t be mad,” she says. She turns to her grandmother. “You shouldn’t have just blurted it out like that, Nana.”

            “Nonsense, child,” Rose cackles, “it’s high time he learnt the ways of our world. Wolves need alphas to survive, and alphas need a pack.”

            They confer a little more, but Jughead doesn’t hear it. He’s too busy panicking on the inside and trying not to show it on the outside.

            Cheryl doesn’t try and stop him when he pushes open the door and stumbles out into the long, dark hallway – wearing only pajama bottoms. He shivers and feels the wolf stirring under his skin, feels that it wants to pace, growl. Its ears would be back, growling. The beast is uneasy in this place, and so is he.

            Chery’s voice calls after him, all honey tones: “Oh, _Juggie darling_!” she trills, “Jason’s room is right across the hall! You can borrow some more of his clothes again, if you like.”

            Jughead swallows, grimacing.

            Of course, it’s not like he has much of a choice. But how is he back here, again? It feels like he’s running in circles. Chasing his own tail.

            It’s weird to be standing in front of the door to Jason’s bedroom, though. He didn’t actually see it last time, and he was never invited here when Jason was alive, either.

            He stares at it blankly for a second.

            _Don’t be stupid,_ _Jughead,_ he thinks finally, _it’s just a room._

            Squaring his shoulders, Jughead pushes open the door. Immediately, Jason’s scent floods his wolf senses. He has to grip the door to keep from falling flat on his face. It’s – overwhelming. Like Jason is _right there_ , like he might come in at any moment. _Almost like he’s still alive._

            Jughead wants nothing more than to shut the door tightly and walk away, but – well, he _does_ need clothes. So he drags himself inside, breathing shallowly through his mouth.

            _Jason . .._ he shivers.

_Jason wanted to run away with him. Jason wanted to take them away somewhere safe._

Jughead collapses beside the bed. _This is so messed up._

            But he doesn’t have time to give into these feelings, these hungry shadows, weighing on him, dragging him down. He knows he has to get clothes and get as far away from Thornhill as he can before the Blossoms march him down the aisle with a shotgun (at this point, he really wouldn’t put it past them.)

            He doesn’t want to dig around in Jason’s stuff more than he has to, so he just grabs the first pair of sweatpants and sweater that he sees, surprised and relieved that Jason even owned such non-fancy, ordinary clothes. He finds a pair of old sneakers in the bottom of the closet. It’s horrible, the way it all smells like him and the way his werewolf senses amplify that by about a thousand.

            It’s painful like knives in his chest and he wants to get away as soon as he can. He doesn’t want to go home, back to the trailer and his drunk old man. He doesn’t want to go back to the _Twilight_ , where he might see Jason’s ghost again. He wants to go to Stiles – the only place, he realizes, that he really felt safe. He hopes Stiles will just let him in, won’t be too creeped out by everything that’s happened.

            Jughead runs a hand over his face, pushing his unruly hair out of the way.

            _Stiles . . ._ Jughead presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. _What’s he going to tell Stiles about all of this?_

            He remembers Stiles trying to protect him from Derek and Cheryl. He hopes he’s okay. He wonders if Stiles told his dad, or if he decided that since they were all werewolves they were acting in Jughead’s best interests? He wishes he had a phone with him so he could call and ask.

            Mostly, he just wishes he could hear Stiles’ voice again, telling him everything is going to be okay. If they don’t let him be with Stiles he thinks he might really lose it. Whatever tenuous grasp of his self and his sanity he’s still clinging to will evaporate and there will just be the beast – wild rage and fury and hunger like no other.

            He can feel it even now.

            Jughead takes his hands away from his eyes and realizes they’re shaking. He hates it. Hates to be this fragile, this weak. This dependant on another human being. There’s a very real fear, stuck in his chest, that by the time he gets out of here and goes back to the Stilinski’s place, Stiles will have moved on, forgotten about him, as quickly as Archie forgot about their road trip.

            But

            Was that even Archie’s fault? he wonders, remembering what he overhead between Archie and Ms. Grundy in the school music room. He hasn’t really had time to think on it, or to investigate. Maybe Stiles will help him find out if Archie’s really alright.

            While he’s thinking about this, the door to Jason’s bedroom opens and Cheryl sashays in. She’s fixed herself up again – her hair and make-up, her designer outfit. To look at her, you would never imagine the scared, crying girl he saw last night, this morning.  

            “They don’t like me coming in here,” she announces. “But I don’t care. Jason and I shared a bond no one can understand.”

            When she gets to the window, she pulls back the drapes, letting the light stream in.

            “I’m leaving,” says Jughead.

            She shrugs, spinning around, flicking her long red hair over her shoulder. It ripples like a scarlet cape.

            “I could go to the cops you know,” he won’t – for other reasons – but she doesn’t know that.

            “And tell them what? Your bruises and cuts are healed, remember? You have no evidence of anything.”

            He sucks in his breath.

            “Stop acting like a martyr,” she says. “It’s a good deal, Jughead. Derek will take care of you. He’s not like my mother. He doesn’t know what she’s like, or he wouldn’t have left us alone with her last night.”

            “I don’t care,” says Jughead. “You can’t just sell me to your extended family.”

            Cheryl just looks at him blankly and Jughead throws his hands into the air. He wants to scream. “Seriously?! Do you _not get_ how _twisted_ all of this is, Cheryl?”

            And he thinks: _she’s damaged. She’s too damaged to even see it. This_ is _normal for her!_

And there’s something terrifying about that, because Cheryl is tough and if the Blossoms can break _her_ to this point, then what chance does a kid like him even have?  

            “You make it sound so sordid.”

            But she bites her lip. She crosses the room, to sit at Jason’s desk, where she starts playing with the pens and pencils there. “I told you - _you’re_ _part of_ the pack now. Obviously since Jason is _dead_ you can’t be _his_ mate. So I thought . . . _maybe_ . . . that would mean _you and I_ -”

            All the blood drains from Jughead’s face. “ _No_.”

            Cheryl frowns. “Don’t worry. My parents really, truly hate you.”

            “I noticed.” The sound of the lash whistling through the air comes back then - and the burning sting of it biting his skin. _The psychotic glare in Penelope Blossom’s eyes – she really did want to kill me,_ he thinks.

“But mommy and daddy are bound by certain codes of honor. Jason made you _pack_ , so they can’t just cast you out, or kill you. Derek is _family_ , but he’s – you know, my mother’s side, the _Hale_ side. And he lives in _California_. They’ll never have to see you again, which makes them very happy – and Derek desperately _needs_ a pack.”

             “Yeah, well, what about _me_? You can’t just ship me off to _California_ , Cheryl. I have a family. Friends. School–” He’s getting close to a full-blown panic attack when he thinks, _Stiles._ And that thought – picturing Stiles next to him, thinking of what he would say, if he were here, calms Jughead down.

_Stiles. Stiles._ _Stiles._

            _Stiles would just say:_   _it’s not happening._ Stiles would point out that not even the Blossoms can get away with straight-up _disappearing_ people. They can go to the sheriff– maybe Jughead _doesn’t_ have any bruises on him, but Sheriff Stilinski is Stiles’ dad and Jughead’s pretty sure he would believe them if they said the Blossom’s abducted him and held him against his will.

            Cheryl, watching his face, seems to guess what he’s thinking, because she sighs heavily, twisting and untwisting a lock of hair around her finger. “You’re right, we can’t force you,” she admits. “But it really wouldn’t be so bad, Jughead. You have nothing to gain by refusing us.”

            He crosses his arms, looking at her. “ _That’s_ a matter of opinion, Cheryl.”

             “Would you at least _talk_ to Derek?” she asks.

            “No! What kind of freak just decides I have to marry him – I don’t even know him!”

            “It wasn’t up to Derek!” Cheryl cries. “So don’t blame him for it.”

            Jughead gives her a skeptical look, but Cheryl refuses to drop her gaze. She gets up from the desk and stalks towards him. “I mean it. Derek came to Riverdale looking for someone else entirely – an omega wolf who deserted her pack back in Cali and ran all the way here. He was trying to get _her_ to join him, but then Jason . . . and all of this happened.” Her hands clench. Cheryl gives an aggravated sigh, the closest he’s heard her come to a growl and he thinks he catches a glimpse of her nails extending.

            “Someone killed Jason! And then you were turned, and Jason had marked you as pack and made you our responsibility! No one knew what to do . . . and it was _my father’s_ decision, okay? Derek’s _an_ alpha, but Daddy is _the_ alpha - head of the entire family. He’s like, the _alpha_ -alpha, okay? Even Derek has to do what he says.”

            Jughead watches her for a moment. He decides he thinks she’s telling the truth. Not that it helps much. “You people sure enjoy your rigid hierarchies,” he mutters.

            “You’ll get used to it, Jughead.”

            But he doesn’t think he will, actually.

            Cheryl doesn’t try to stop him when he turns around and walks away from her. He leaves her in Jason’s room and she just stands there, as far as he can tell, her face so pale she’s almost a ghost herself.

            He’s back out in the hallway, and when he strains to listen with his werewolf senses he can hear people moving around the sprawling, gothic mansion – down distant hallways, both above and below him. He can hear the faint creaking of Rose’s wheelchair, and he can even hear the faint thud-thud of their hearts.

            Jughead reasons that with this ability, he should be able to sneak away without running into anyone or having anymore weird conversations.

            If only it were ever so simple.

            He manages to make it downstairs and to the front hallway, the long foyer with its antique rugs and brass lamps and gilt-edged mirrors. Maybe he’s too eager to get away and he lets his guard down – or maybe Derek’s just so good at being a werewolf he’s able to mask his movements – either way, he appears between Jughead and the large oak doors.

            _Derek Hale. His supposed ‘mate.’_

            Jughead’s instinct is to growl, but he swallows it down – he has to prove he’s stronger than this thing, that he’s still him.

            Still, Derek is not someone he wants to see right now. Or really ever.

            “. . . hey,” says Jughead, because as recalcitrant as he is, Derek might be even worse and seems determined to stand there glowering in silence all day if he has to.

            Derek seems to unfreeze a little at that. He almost looks surprised that Jughead spoke. “. . . Hi.”

            The silence stretches out again. Yeah, this isn’t awkward at all. They’d make a great, uncommunicative, couple.

            “You’re not leaving,” Derek says, finally.

            “Yeah, I am,” says Jughead.

            And the silence descends _again_ , while they stand there in the dark foyer, arms crossed defensively, glaring at each other.

            Jughead wonders if Cliff Blossom decided to play matchmaker just to be a sadistic fuck. Knowing the Blossoms? Yeah, probably. But that doesn’t excuse Derek, either, standing there, with an arm braced against the wall, like he can trap Jughead. Like he can intimidate Jughead. That thought irks him. Derek may be an alpha werewolf, but Jughead’s dad is leader of the Southside Serpents and Jughead spent all summer standing up for himself against drunk biker assholes at the drive-in, so he’s not just going to roll over instantly the second a tall dude in a leather jacket glares at him.

            “Get. Out. Of. My. Way.”

            “We’re stronger _together_ ,” Derek insists, coming closer, crowding him. His eyes are intense and Jughead frowns, but doesn’t step back. “I can teach you how to be a werewolf.”

            “How to be a monster? I’ll pass.”

            “Is it really so bad? Is it so _terrible_ to be able to see better, move faster? You’ve been given something most people would kill for.” Derek hesitates, then seems to decide to take a gamble - he raises a hand and brushes the side of Jughead’s face.

            His touch is light, but Jughead still flinches. Derek drops his hand, but they both refuse to back down. For Jughead, that would mean retreating back into Thornhill, something he absolutely refuses to do.

            He thinks if he lets Derek intimidate him now, he’ll be done. He really will be stuck here forever. Like Cheryl.

            “Let me past,” Jughead repeats. This time he doesn’t try to keep the growl out of his voice and he thinks his eyes must glow gold – he can feel the wolf surge in him.

            Derek is an alpha and should be able to stop him, but to his surprise, he doesn’t. He actually steps out of Jughead’s way. Jughead is so surprised for a moment that at first he just stands there, staring at the unguarded exit in front of him.

            “You’ll come back when you’re ready,” says Derek softly.

            Which makes Jughead growl again. He barely takes a step before Derek pulls something out of his jacket pocket. “Wait –”

            _Like Hell!_ Jughead very nearly snarls, when Derek tosses the thing at him. He snatches it out of the air with easy werewolf reflexes and is so surprised the growls disappear. He blinks, staring down at the grey cloth of his crown beanie. The beanie he lost that night he went running in the woods.

            “I found this last night,” Derek says, shrugging. “It smelt like you. I thought you might want it back.”

            Jughead stares at him for a second, fingers squeezing the familiar material. He’s had this hat forever. He’s actually really relieved to have it back. But. “This doesn’t mean we’re getting married,” he says.

            Derek actually grins at that.

            Which makes Jughead like him, just a little bit.

            Damn it.

 

*            *            *            *            *

 

            Betty is lonely, since everything fell apart with Lydia. The dawn light’s streaming through her windows and she’s sitting on her bed, alone, diary and stuffed animals her only friends. Archie’s been so distant lately, that despite the fact that they’re neighbours and life-long best friends, he doesn’t seem to want to communicate. At all. He doesn’t respond to her texts, doesn’t answer when she calls. At school he barely says more than five words to her at a time, but he’s been like that with everyone – blowing people off, lost in a daze. It’s not like him.

            She often finds herself wondering about his ‘mystery lady.’ She wonders if she’ll ever find out who it is. She wonders if he’s really okay.

            Jughead’s also been strangely absent from her life. She’s texted him a few times, but not heard back. She can’t figure out why her two oldest, closest friends are giving her the cold shoulder, but it hurts.

            Kevin’s still talking to her, but he’s busy with his boyfriend Danny, going on dates a lot of the times she’d like to hang out.

            And for the first time in her life, big sister Polly’s not around to listen, to give advice, or just be a shoulder to cry on. She misses Polly worse than ever these days – especially since that disastrous party - and wishes she could talk to her about everything.

            All Betty can do is write her thoughts down in her diary, which helps a little, but it’s still not the same.

            _Polly . . ._

            Her parents won’t even talk about her about Polly. Except to say it was Jason Blossom’s fault Polly ended up in Eichen House. But how? And why? They weren’t even dating at the time. Everyone knew they’d gone out once or twice, but it didn’t develop into anything serious.

            Still, her parents blame Jason.

            “That family . . . everything they touch rots,” Alice said once, when Betty asked.

            Betty sighs, sitting on her bed, pillow in her lap, diary open beside her. She taps it with her pen, trying to think of something more to write about then just Lydia’s name, written and crossed out and re-written. She rubs her lips, where she imagines she can still taste faintly her kiss. Soon her page is filled with scribbles and question marks.

            She’s sitting there, tapping the paper, staring off into space, thinking about how everything – all her friends, all of _Riverdale_ – seems to be falling apart around her – when the doorbell rings.

            Betty jumps off the bed, throwing the pillow and diary aside. She wonders if it’s one of her friends – Archie, or Jughead – and thumps down the stairs quickly. It’s Saturday, so she’s just wearing a t-shirt and jeans, her hair pulled back in her usual ponytail, but she’s never had to be fancy for those guys, anyway.

            The bell rings again before she gets there. “Coming!” she shouts, a second before she pulls the door open.

            But it isn’t them – instead she throws the door open to Kevin and Danny. She’s surprised, but not unhappy to see them. But. Kevin is so pale, and there are dark bags under their eyes like they haven’t slept. “Hi guys. What’s up?”

            They don’t answer at first. Danny looks away, frowning, like he’s trying to think of what to say and Kevin shifts uncomfortably. Betty’s gaze darts back and forth between them. “Kev, Danny. Guys, what is it?”

            “Can you come with us?” he asks.

            “. . . it’s Lydia,” adds Danny. She opens her mouth to object – she and Lydia aren’t a thing. They aren’t even friends, not after what happened. But Danny’s expression stops her. He looks so genuinely upset.

            Instead, she swallows her first response. “What . . . what’s wrong? Did something happen?”

            “Yeah . . . something,” says Danny. He looks at Kevin. Kevin looks at him, then back to Betty, helplessly.

            “Sorry, Bets. We’re not trying to be difficult, it’s just . . .” he shudders. Kevin Keller actually, _visibly shudders_ in front of her and Betty feels a chill of goosebumps run across her arms and the back of her neck.

            Her throat feels thick and she thinks – she can’t help but think, given their town and what’s happened recently – of Jason. _Poor, dead Jason._

            “Is she . . .”

            “She’s okay,” says Kevin. “It’s just. She won’t talk to anyone else. She’s been asking for you.”

            “We found her last night,” Danny explains. “She was way out on the highway, by the Sweetwater, in her nightgown, alone. She was confused and disoriented and she kept talking about . . .”

            “Monsters,” says Kevin softly. “Ghosts and monsters.”

            “And she kept asking for you.”

            Betty’s chill gets worse, crawling like shards of ice down her spine, like cold water is filling her up from her ice-block feet to her throat. She thinks of poor Polly, locked away in Eichen House. Alone and scared.

            _One thing she overhead, she wasn’t supposed to, but she heard her parents talking about it. Her dad said, “the doctors say she’s been raving about monsters, Alice . . .”_

            Betty swallows. She almost leaves the house in her socks, until Kevin gently stops her and reminds her to put some shoes on. He grabs her coat for her. “Thanks, Kev,” she murmurs. He squeezes her shoulder gently and they all pile into his car.  

            _What the Hell is going on Riverdale?_

 

            “Did they take her to the hospital?” Betty asks, as they drive. As they pass Archie’s house, she can’t help glancing at the darkened windows, the drawn blinds.

            _What is going on with her friends? Why is everything falling apart?_ She wants to cry, fights that urge, clenching her hands so hard her nails dig into her palms again. Hurting herself to keep the tears at bay.

            Hurting herself because her heart is twisting in knots over this and she told herself over and over again that she isn’t even supposed to care about Lydia Martin. But she still does anyway because her heart is a bitch and she wants to scream.

            “Yeah, but her mom got signed her out and took her home,” says Kevin.

            “So at least she didn’t end up . . .” Danny trails off, looking at her guiltily. _At least she didn’t end up at Eichen House. Like Polly_. Betty shakes her head. What can she do? Everyone knows it, much to Alice’s chagrin.

            “We stayed with her until the ambulance came,” Kevin explains. “She kept asking for you. She kept saying she was sorry,” he glances at her in the rear-view mirror, while trying to keep his eyes on the road.

            Betty feels her stomach roil. She tugs on her seatbelt even though it’s as firmly in place as it’s going to get.  “When she wasn’t talking about monsters,” she says, biting her lip.

            Danny is looking at Kevin again. He looks like he wants to say something more, but is unsure. Kevin’s hands are gripping the wheel so tightly his knuckles are white.

            “What is it?” she asks.

            There’s something else. She can see it on their faces. They both look so haunted. Even more so than the strain of being up all night, of finding a classmate in such bizarre circumstances. “There _is_ something, isn’t there.”

            “I told you we couldn’t keep it from her,” says Kevin, he laughs nervously. Danny reaches over and touches his arm. Kevin doesn’t seem to notice. “It’s those reporter instincts. She gets them from her mother, right?”

            “Kev, _what_? What. The Hell. Is. Going. On?”

            Kevin says nothing, concentrating on the road. Danny twists around in the passenger seat so he can see her. “We saw some weird stuff out there, by the river, where we found Lydia. While we were waiting for the ambulance. While we were out there, in the dark with her. It was . . . I mean, it was misty. Foggy. It was probably just . . . you know, with the way she was talking. The things she was saying. We probably just –”

            “We _didn’t_ imagine it!” Kevin says, so forcefully both she and Danny flinch. “Sorry, just . . .” Kevin breathes out, takes a hand off the wheel to wipe the sweat off his forehead. “We both saw it, Danny.”

            “We saw _something_ ,” Danny says. He slumps in his seat. “Red eyes . . . a shadow . . .”

            “Nothing _human_ made that shadow,” Kevin says.

            Then both boys fall silent. It’s almost like they’ve forgotten she’s sitting in the back, listening. Betty rubs her cold hands. They sit in silence for the rest of the drive.

 

*            *            *            *           *

 

            Stiles can’t relax. He can’t stop thinking about how they took Jughead. Derek and Cheryl just _took_ him, and he couldn’t stop them. Stiles keeps thinking he should tell his dad – then thinking _no, he can’t, they’re werewolves._ His dad will be _hurt_. Or _they’ll_ be hurt. Or _Jughead_ will be hurt. _Someone_ will be hurt, and it will be all Stiles’ fault.

            Maybe Cheryl was trying to help – Jughead said she helped him out that morning, when he woke up in the woods. Still. It’s killing Stiles that he hasn’t heard from Jughead since. He wishes he knew what to do.

            Scott’s been texting him, wanting to hang out and Stiles keeps blowing him off. Which he feels shitty about, but he’s just too tense to hang out with Scott right now.

            When noon comes and goes and there’s _still_ no sign of Jughead, he actually walks down to the sheriff’s office, but still can’t make up his mind whether or not to go in. _Jughead lost his phone,_ he tells himself.

            Maybe he should just go to Thornhill himself and see what’s happening. Except, _oh wait_ – they’re all werewolves! And if he gets himself killed that really won't help.

            Stiles is driving himself nuts with this. He goes in to see his dad, eventually, with the excuse that he’s bringing him lunch – and he does, carrots and celery with his burger from Pop’s, because he wants his dad to be around for a long time – but then just sits there, irritated, while his dad tries to make small talk.

            “Something wrong, son?”

            “Yeah . . . no! I mean, no,” he sighs.

            “Jughead not with you today?”

            “Hey, how’s that murder investigation going?” Stiles says, changing the subject.

            Sheriff Stilinski sighs. “Now, you know I can’t tell you about –”

            “Is that it on the wall, behind you?” Stiles asks, nodding at the obvious murder wall behind his dad’s desk. There’s pictures from where they found the parts of Jason’s body, and notes, bullet points from the autopsy – Jason wasn’t just cut in half, he was held somewhere, tortured. There's close ups of the bruising on the corpse - ligature marks around the wrists and neck.

            There are suspects.

             Stiles frowns, sitting up a little straighter. He didn’t realize his dad had _suspects_ yet.

            “You have the _Coopers_ on there?”

            The sheriff groans. “I told you not to –”

            “And Ms. Grundy? The music teacher?”

            His dad sighs, rubbing his face tiredly. “Well, according to the school she’s moved around a lot, and she was seeing the victim for private lessons –”

            “And –”

            “Look, Stiles, basically the whole town’s a person of interest at this point.”

            “Yeah, but, Dad, you even have Jason’s _parents_ on there – and they couldn’t have -”

            “No?” his dad raises his eyebrows. “Have you _met_ the Blossoms?”

            “. . . okay, fair.”

            “And, seriously, I really can’t talk to you about an ongoing investigation,” his dad says, getting up from behind the desk and ushering Stiles to his feet.

            “Oh, come on, Dad, I was just –”

            “Yeah, yeah, come on don’t you have homework to be doing, or something?”

            “But I just want –”

            The sheriff gets him to the door of his office and an unpleasant glare from Deputy Keller does the rest. Stiles sighs. “Fine. I’ll go.”

            “Thanks for lunch,” his dad calls after him.

            Stiles shakes his head. His mind is racing with the suspects on the wall. It’s hard to think one of their neighbours – the parents of kids he knows and goes to school with, or even a teacher – might be murderers. But obviously one of them has to be, right?

            But if the crime’s about Jason being a _werewolf_ , how are the cops going to solve it? They’re missing half the story!

            Stiles storms outside, pacing up and down the sidewalk. He wishes he knew what to do. According to what Jughead heard, the werewolves already _have_ enemies, but who are they? Are they other wolves, or something else? And will that same killer or killers target _Jughead_ next, now that he's a werewolf?

            All of this makes Stiles want to scream. Which he almost does, when he runs into Archie. Damn, Archie does not look good.

            “Hey, man, you feeling okay?” Stiles asks.

            Archie barely glances at him. His skin is washed out, so white it's almost bluish-grey around his lips and eyes. Speaking of his eyes, they look bruised with how dark the skin around them is and they're too bright - feverish. He looks like he’s lost a ton of weight too, in only a few days since the last time Stiles has seen him. His blue and gold letterman jacket is way too large on him now.

            “Oh . . . Stiles,” he says, after too long a pause. “Yeah . . . everything’s fine. Why-why wouldn’t it be?”

            “You just look a little . . . like you’re going to keel over at any moment.”       

            Archie gives him the most forced smile Stiles has ever seen. “I’m fine.”

            Stiles smiles back, awkwardly, because he doesn’t really know what else to say. “Well . . . if you're sure.”

            Archie raises his hand, as though to wave. And collapses.

            Stiles yells “shit!” as Archie goes down, and tries to catch him, grabbing his shoulders. He can’t get a good grip and they both end up sprawled on the sidewalk outside the police station. "Help! Someone help us!"

           Police officers begin streaming outside. Even in all the commotion, Archie doesn’t stir. His eyes are rolled back in his head. His skin is cold and clammy. Stiles fights the panic rising in his chest.

            “We need an ambulance!” he hears himself shout, still shaking at Archie’s shoulders, which he continues to do until someone pulls him off.

            _This can’t be happening,_ Stiles thinks, shaking and staring. One of the police officers is checking Archie’s pulse. This isn’t supposed to happen, Stiles thinks. _There’s a big football game tonight, the first of the season. He’s supposed to play. He’s – Archie –_

            “What happened? Stiles, what happened?” his dad is asking him.

            “I – I don’t know,” he says, shaking his head. “I just – we were just talking. I thought he looked bad. Pale. I asked if he was okay, he said he was – and then he – he –”

            “He’s not breathing!” shouts Deputy Keller, who begins performing CPR.

            Stiles watches in horror, even as his dad tries to pull him away.

           

 


End file.
